A Dragon's Destiny
by DragonFyre400
Summary: The History of Arda is being rewritten as an old ally of Aragorn's shows up just before the Council. The valor of Men and Elves is tested as a time of old and new magic emerges from a dying past. A story of friendship, redemption, hope and renewal. Featuring Sassy Wraiths, Wizards, Werewolves, Dragons, and Half-Orcs. AU, *Non Slash*, OC, rated for Naughty Words and Violence.
1. When the Past Catches Up

Well howdie doodie there folks! Dragonfyre here just posting up another story. This one is technically a sequel to another story I wrote: A Dragon's Quest. I will endeavor to write this one as closely as possible to a standalone, but honestly you are going to be three kinds of confuzzled at first if you haven't read it. Everything will clear up but the backstory is the windup and this story is the pitch. I hope that you all enjoy this one. I look forward to writing this story and I hope you look forward to reading it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter and anything mentioned between the two is borrowed without profit. This is a non-profit story that borrows genius characters and throws in some pretty cool ones. Enjoy!

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Chapter 1 - When the Past Catches Up

Hobbits.

Hobbits were…quaint. Hobbits were the size of children even when they were fully grown. It could be disarming and quite adorable. One could forget that they were grown men and take them upon a lap for a story. They were very tactile creatures. They loved to touch and be touched. Why, young Mr. Gamgee was forever fussing and touching at young Frodo to see if the lad was all right. And Masters Took and Brandybuck were quite the riot together. They reminded him of his brothers.

And young Frodo. What to say about Frodo? He was a solemn looking lad. He had a good heart and was brave and loyal. But that debacle with the ring had nearly been the undoing of them all. As it were they had been forced to leave Bree much earlier than intended. Those riders had sought to kill the Hobbits and take the treasure that one of them held. That would not happen on his watch. Not while he drew breath would any of those foul beasts touch one of the fair hobbits.

They were not long out of Bree. His plan was to go towards Archet at first, but to bear right and pass it on the east, and then to steer as straight as he could over the wild lands to Weathertop Hill. In that way they would, if all went well, cut off a great loop of the Road, which further on bent southwards to avoid the Midgewater Marshes. But, of course, they would have to pass through the marshes themselves. The poor Hobbits did not seem encouraged by what he had told them. Their road was winding and filled with turns and doublings so that no one could follow them.

The Midges were unpleasant things. They bit even at him, as unpleasant as he must taste to them, but the poor fair Hobbits must be like a feast to them. He had learned long ago to ignore them, but that didn't make them any easier to deal with. If only the biting insects had been the only thing that bothered him.

Despite his precautions and skill they were being followed.

He did not burden the Hobbits with the knowledge. He was sure it wasn't the Black Riders. Were it them, or even one of them, they would have struck by now. They were not known for their stealth. They were known for their fear-inducing cries and swift strikes. Whatever it was that was following them had been tailing them since they had gotten out of sight of Bree. Whether it was because their stalker was just clever enough not to have followed them directly or just wasn't associated with anyone there he did not know. What he did know was that he did not like being followed.

"Strider,"

He looked down to see Frodo walking right next to him, having sped up considerably to approach his side.

"What is it, Frodo?" he asked softly.

"Something is following us," Frodo said simply.

"I know. I am trying to decide whether it is worth confronting or whether we would be safer just to ignore the hanger on. I am impressed in the skill of whoever it is to keep up such a winding trail as we have led," Strider replied easily. Frodo seemed nervous, his small hand resting on his chest where the ring lay. "Fear not, hobbit-friend. While I am with you I will not allow harm to fall on any of you," he reassured him. Frodo nodded and then fell back with the other three.

Their camping place was miserable; damp, cold and uncomfortable. Strider watched over the hobbits as they tried to sleep, but the sounds of the insects were insufferable and the biting midges did not rest for sleeping Shire-folk. It was not long into the fifth day that they finally left behind the last straggling pools and reed-beds of the marshes.

"I shall not be sorry to see them go," Commented Pippin with a sniff of disdain.

"I only wonder what they eat when they can't get Hobbit!" Sam said softly, reaching up to scratch a place at his neck that had been gnawed at by the midges.

"Are we still attracting someone's attention, Strider?" Pippin asked. Strider turned grey eyes on the youngest Hobbit. Either Frodo had told the lad or he had deduced himself. Strider had not heard Frodo speak of it. If that was the case then Pippin was more discerning than he thought for one so young.

"We are attracting a great deal of attention by a large number of people, my dear young hobbit," Strider replied evenly. Pippin gave him a look that said he was extremely unimpressed with Strider's subterfuge.

"Ya know…I'm the youngest, but I'm not the dumbest. That title goes to Merry."

"Hey!"

"And ergo, I do not need to be babied. Is there someone following us still?" Pippin asked plainly. Strider gave him another searching look, before nodding sharply and continuing on his way. "See now? That wasn't so hard…"

Strider was concerned. The flashes they had seen the night before and the fact that someone was indeed following them was truly bothering him. They walked until night fell, the early darkness and cold making them set up camp. They could have no fire but the hobbits talked amongst themselves for a bit to distract themselves.

Strider watched over them from nearby, his long legs stretched out and his hand idly playing at a trinket he wore around his neck. When the older Hobbits began speaking of darker things and unintentionally left out Pippin, the hobbit gave a huff and sought out their long-legged guide. He plopped down on the ground near the Ranger, leaning back against the boulder and imitating his stance by stretching out his much shorter legs and crossing his arms.

The flash of moonlight against the trinket in his hands caught Pippin's attention.

"What is that, Strider?" he asked. Strider looked down at where his hand held the small pendant. He reached behind his head and lifted the cord from around his neck so that he could show Pippin.

"It was a gift from a friend many years ago."

Pippin touched the round black pendant. It was the size of a coin and black, but when the light hit it a certain way it flashed like a dark rainbow, shimmering with iridescence like an insect's wing. The little thing was set in what appeared to be a mouth with many sharp teeth holding it in place, and a loop in the silver being what the cord was threaded through.

"I've never seen anything like it. It's as hard as stone but so very thin. Here now, what's this little nick on it?" Pippin asked, pointing to a small place where the black material was marred slightly. Strider smiled in memory.

"That is where the pendant saved my life. It deflected an arrow that would have struck my heart," Strider said. Pippin seemed amazed.

"That's right amazing! But it's so _thin, _sir! How does something so thin deflect an arrow?" he asked, moving his hand away from the necklace. Strider's smile grew into a wide, mischievous grin.

"Because it's a dragon scale, and they are hard as steel despite their thinness." He replied.

"A dragon scale! You must have had some friend to give you the scale of a dragon! And one that's black as night!" Pippin was in awe. Here Strider's smile faded a bit.

"Aye. He was an amazing friend. He saved my life when I was very young. He was very unique," Strider said softly. Pippin said no more, because Strider's face appeared taut with sadness at that. Perhaps his friend had died?

"I believe you should rejoin your friends for the night, young Peregrin," Strider said at length.

"They are on about big things and dark things. Even Merry fancies himself mature enough for their talk. They haven't any time for poor Pippin. Might I stay with you a bit longer, Strider? I won't ask about your friend…" Pippin said, giving a sad face that would have looked at home on a puppy to Strider. The Ranger stifled a grin.

"I suppose I could be put upon to endure your presence for a bit more," Strider said good-naturedly. Pippin laughed sweetly and leaned back against the rock again. After a while Strider felt a small thump against his side and looked down to see Pippin quite asleep against him. He gave a warm smile to the Hobbit and patted his curly head.

Aye…Hobbits were quaint.

* * *

Carefully he picked a path amongst the brush and dirt, weaving silently through the almost invisible trail that the Ranger was leading. He knew someone was following him, and that spoke of his skill. But the fact that the halflings also knew rankled him. He had spent decades perfecting his art and learning stealth in the wilds. To be bested by someone of great skill was a harsh mistress, but an acceptable one…but to be found out by Shire-folk was ridiculous.

Oh, he had nothing against the fair folk of the Shire. Let it be known that they were pleasant and kind and deserved to be protected for their innocence. Many times had he and his people guarded the night against thugs who would do harm to the little folk. And no one knew. He preferred it that way, honestly. Because if they knew who guarded their doorsteps at night, they might all pack up and ship out with the next caravan.

The Wraiths were also close at hand. What surprised him was that they were actually skulking along the shadows. Normally they charged into a situation with their ghost dicks waving in the air, but for some reason they seemed to be just at the edge of perception, hiding until the time was right. He supposed it was all to do with the One Ring.

He could feel it whispering to him. It told of promises that he knew it would not keep. It filled him with false hope and a great sense of urgency to get it back to its master. But he firmly told the Ring where it could situate itself in its master and the whispering lessened. It did not quit, because now he was sure the Ring was angry at him. How did Rings get angry? Oh yea….magic.

Weathertop would have been a good place for them to stay had their long-legged guide not left them to their own devices for a bit. He knew that the man was seeking proof of another companion and trying to find out if they were in immediate, pressing danger of the Black Riders, but it did not make the man's decision any brighter. Oh, look. A fire. Yup, that's going to attract the-

_Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!_

They swarmed like a band of Dark jackals, whirling in their shadowy cloaks around the poor huddled Hobbits. He left his hiding place immediately and began the ascent on the Hill. It would take a few moments for him to reach them, and he hoped that the Wraiths had not attacked yet. Luck was with him. He could see the shadowed figures still dancing around the Hobbits. The one Hobbit, the lad with the piercing blue eyes, seemed to be struggling with some unseen command. He and the other Hobbits were holding short blades. They would have been naught but knives in the hand of a Man.

He decided to spice things up a bit. Five wraiths against four poor hobbits was a terrible odd. And their Ranger was either not who he thought he was or he was off taking a most inopportune shit. Either way he was not here or he would defend the younglings in his stead. He emerged from the shadows in a long-legged leap, landing on silent feet in front of the frightened creatures. Their horrified gazes might well have been comical if his appearance hadn't also riled the wraiths as well.

"Dra-," the chubby one stuttered.

"Dra-," The golden-haired one said. He appeared to be the youngest.

"_Dragon._ Thou dost have a most inopportune sense of timing." The tallest wraith stepped forward. His shrouded head was also protected by an iron helm decorated with spikes.

The dragon gave the hobbits a dangerous grin before turning and facing the wraith. The dragon was the size of a horse and was black as night, his scales gleaming under the light of the moon. They shimmered with a dark opalescence, and the color of it niggled against Pippin's mind for some reason. His eyes were gleaming gold, the pupils slitted like a cat's and wide in the darkness. His legs were long and his paws tipped in shiny black talons that were curved and wicked-looking. The dragon was very thin, almost skeletal looking, and his long tail was swishing languidly behind him as he hunched his shoulders to prepare for an attack.

"Witch-king. Still sucking Sauron's cock?" The dragon asked cheekily. The hobbits were quite surprised not only to hear the dragon speak the Dark Lord's name, but to address the wraith as though it knew it.

The Witch-King of Angmar let out an unearthly shriek and made a motion with his hands. The other four wraiths attacked the dragon, ghostly pale swords glimmering in the moonlight. The dragon danced and twirled like a top as his claws glittered and struck out at the wraiths.

The tallest wraith stepped around the fight, advancing on the hobbits. Sam moved forward clutching his blade.

"Back, you devil!" he said, striking out with the short dagger. The Witch-king laughed and bandied the little fool back. The other two just stared at him in horror and he shoved them aside roughly. This one. This last one held what he sought. The Halfling took a few steps back from him and stumbled quite spectacularly. He could almost see the influence of the Ring taking the creature. Yes, yes….put it on. Draw the Eye to you, little one.

And he did.

The Ring was on the foul little creature's hand! His Master's Ring…just there. Right within reach. His hand lowered slightly to take it, a grin on his ghostly face. With a yelp of effort the lad pulled his hand back. Impressive Will, this one. But it angered the Witch-King. He drew the Morgul Blade from within his cloak and stabbed downwards into the hobbit's shoulder.

Then he saw fire. He felt fire. He _tasted _fire.

The dragon had gotten tired of whirling about with the other wraiths and had used that fantastic breath on them. Now there was another creature there, a Man with a sword and a flaming brand. The brand had been touched against his cloak and now the flames licked at him.

He fled.

"Strider!" Sam called, looking down at the wound on Frodo's shoulder. The Ranger knelt down next to Frodo, examining the wound. He picked up the dagger that had been used to wound him.

"He has been stabbed with a Morgul Blade," he said softly. The blade disintegrated and he cast aside the handle with distaste. "I can do little for him. He needs Elvish medicine." Strider said.

"We're still six days from Rivendell. He'll never make it!" Sam argued.

"Pardon me, sirs. You have a problem."

They all whirled around to see the black dragon sitting calm-as-you-please against the old stones, his long tail wrapped around him and tapping gently at the ground. Strider seemed to notice the beast for the first time.

"Naurlam…" he said softly. The dragon seemed to grin a bit. Strider noticed a long pale scar across the dragon's face, going from the top of its head down between its eyes and beneath its left eye.

"Your pony holds supplies. I can hold hobbit," he said. His voice was thick and accented and it appeared to be of great effort just to speak. Strider noticed from the few words he had spoken that he seemed only to be able to get out four words per sentence before he had to pause.

"I won't have Master Frodo being hauled around by the likes of a dragon!" Sam yelled, brandishing his blade again. Naurlam threw back his head and laughed.

"You are all lucky. I am feeling benevolent," he said, standing to his feet and approaching them. Sam swung the sword in warning.

"Mister Gamgee. This dragon is trustworthy. Lower your blade," Strider said with authority. Sam looked at the Ranger and then at the dragon.

"What kind of world do we live in where Dragons are _trustworthy_?" Sam exclaimed.

"A weird one. We can argue...or we can go." Naurlam said, moving gracefully up next to Strider who had picked up Frodo. Strider noticed criss crossing scars across Naurlam's back, right between his wings. The wounds would have had to be quite deep to scar the tough dragon hide, even the more tender flesh between his wings. Strider sighed softly as he thought about the injustices that Naurlam had suffered. But then he settled the young Hobbit onto his back and they were on their way to Rivendell, making very good time with their scaly steed holding Frodo and trusty Bill holding the supplies. Naurlam did not seem to mind being a beast of burden too much, and even hummed a bit as they walked. It did wonders to decrease the nervousness of the Hobbits.

Naurlam even thought they might have arrived at Rivendell earlier than expected had the Ring-wraiths not decided to try their specific brand of douche-fuckery again.

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Well that was fun! I hope you've been caught neatly in my net. (Or Jedi Mend-tricked into reading. Lol)

I hope you drop me a line to let me know if this is to your liking. I'll probably continue either way, but it's always a nice gesture to know that a work is appreciated, especially if the work is non-profit.


	2. When the Present Seems Bleak

Gais….gais….I did not forget the dilemma with James/Naurlam. Scout's honor. I like, literally wrote the last chapter of A Dragon's Quest and the first chapter of A Dragon's Destiny at the same time. If I had forgotten I might as well hang in the towel now and forget about life. Anyway, I cleared up some back story here and finally got around to calling a few people by their real names (Goddamit, Aragorn, why the hell do you have so many god-forsaken names? ) which was actually more of a pain because until I got to the point where I could call them as such, I feel like I was writing a stranger. Lolz.

Anyway, here is chapter two and I hope that you all enjoy it as much as you did chapter one. Yay.

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Chapter 2 – When the Present Seems Bleak

He walked next to Naurlam, who bore the Hobbit with no complaint or obvious discomfort. But then again, the dragon had borne him so very many years ago as a heavy mortal child, sick with Goblin venom and shock from a broken arm. The dragon had cared for him in a cave near the Trollshaws, nursing him back to health with pastes of herbs and sweet herbal potions. He had been tender in his care, surprising for a fire-breathing lizard. Naurlam had then hauled him back to Rivendell, nearly at the risk of his own life. They had been attacked by travelers with a grudge against the dragon for stealing some of their things. He had added two more arrow wounds to his collection and dragon had gotten an arrow in the back and one in his breast. His Ada and Lord Glorfindel had hauled the dragon back to Rivendell for healing.

Dragon's large ears were pricked upright and listening intently around them. His eyes were also whirling about every so often. His demeanor was cheerful and put the poor hobbits at ease, but to Strider's keen eyes he was alert and ready for battle. Sam was still mistrustful of the dragon and was watching him like a hawk. He had his hand firmly on the hilt of his little blade, ready to defend his master. It was heartwarming...and extremely foolish. Naurlam would make a meal of the hobbit in a few mouthfuls.

"They still follow us," Naurlam said simply, adjusting his wings slightly. Frodo was leaning heavily against the scaled neck, and the pattern of overlapping scales would be pressed into his cheek. His breathing seemed difficult and pained, wheezing highly in his chest.

"They want Frodo's burden," Strider said simply. In reply Frodo shuddered slightly and grasped convulsively at the dragon's neck.

Pippin curiously walked next to the dragon, looking him over and studying his movements as he walked. The dragon was very smooth, his movements as elegant as water. His scales were beautiful, shimmering darkly in the sunlight in the strange, black, opalescent hue. Except for a small strip around his throat…no…that wasn't scales. There was a dark metal collar affixed around the dragon's neck. It was plain and flat, but there was something about it that spoke of malevolence. Suddenly he found the intense golden eyes focused on him.

"May I help you?" Naurlam asked, his forked tongue flitting to test the Hobbit's resolve. Pippin swallowed nervously.

"I'm only...nervous is all. You're rather large, Mr. Dragon, sir," Pippin stuttered. Naurlam game him a sharp-toothed grin.

"That's refreshing. Most call me small," he said, his voice quivering with mirth.

"Small!" Merry piped up. "We are small, sir dragon. We could do nothing against those black riders...but you...you were dancing around them like they were of little consequence. We thank you," Merry finished, reaching out and patting the back leg of the dragon. The dragon's head swung around to look at him, tilting this way and that as he studied him.

"You are welcome, Hobbit," he replied, his tongue flicking again to catch the closer scent of this hobbit.

"I'm Merry, Dragon, and that is my cousin, Pippin. The Hobbit you're carrying is Frodo, and the one who thinks he could stab you is Sam. We're from the Shire," Merry said, pointing each hobbit out in turn. Naurlam chuckled, his head lifting to stare ahead again.

"I know. I've been to Shire. Beautiful place," he said in that slow, stilted accent. The hobbits seemed shocked.

"And how'd you get around the Shire without nobody seeing you, then?" Sam demanded. Naurlam's head turned to him sharply, his mouth open slightly to show his razor sharp teeth.

"I'm black, like shadow. If don't wish it...will not be seen," he said. "Besides...meant no harm. We protect the Shire,"

"Who is 'we?'" Merry asked curiously, while Sam looked a bit sick at the thought that a dragon may have passed through his gardens without him knowing. Naurlam looked mischievous for a moment.

"My friends and I."

* * *

Oh look! There's Glorfindel! He was tinkling along towards them on his steed, Asfaloth, shining like some happy little star under the bright noon sun. He wondered if he were still as easy to catch fire as he had been sixty years ago? He recalled a time when he and the twins had set off fireworks and one had flown into Glorfindel's window. The elf had smelled distinctly singed for several weeks, and it had taken that long to regrow his eyebrow.

Glorfindel approached, a look of surprise on his face when he spied the black dragon with them. He of course recognized Naurlam, and was both shocked and pleased to see the creature. He had rather enjoyed the presence of the fun-loving beast. Most of the time.

"Dragon! Still have a knack for finding our Estel? He looks no worse for wear this time, so you aren't dragging him back half dead and full of arrows..." Glorfindel said. Strider pulled a face at the elf as Naurlam's mouth turned into a grin worthy of the blackest villain.

"Glorfy! Still flammable?" he asked innocently. All traces of mirth disappeared from the elf's face immediately.

"That wasn't funny," he sniffed.

"Pardon me, sirs, but it seems that while you are all catching up on your sordid past, my Master is dying atop that black beast!" Sam said fervently, pointing at Frodo. The Hobbit's eyes were ringed with red and his breath rattled in his chest. His dark hair was plastered to his head with cold sweat and Glorfindel noticed his face was deathly pale.

"He was injured with a Morgul blade." Strider supplied. Glorfindel approached the dragon, shifting the injured hobbit back and probing at the wound while murmuring to himself for several minutes

"He needs Lord Elrond's healing. I can see that Athelas was applied, which is good, and my magic has done what it can. I will take him on Asfaloth ahead of you. Asfaloth is swift and we will get there much sooner than on foot," Glorfindel said.

"Excuse? I carry hobbit. I can fly." Naurlam said. Glorfindel seemed to consider this for moment, only a little surprised the dragon could talk.

"Aye, but he needs to be kept warm, too, Naurlam. And no offense, but you are cold of blood. Not only that, but flying along the air would chill him far too quickly. I am glad that you have not flown already. I will wrap him in my cloak and take him on horseback. He needs to go further than the border, and I know your memory is not that short," Glorfindel stated. Naurlam seemed miffed, but did not argue when the elf lord retrieved the burden on his back.

"I should not...like to think...that I will ride along...while my friends are left...with no escape..." Frodo managed to gasp.

"They will hardly be in more danger without you with them," Glorfindel replied honestly.

"We will meet you in Rivendell, Frodo," Strider said. Frodo could do little more than wave weakly as Glorfindel mounted the white horse and arranged his cloak over Frodo.

"I feel as if we're abandoning him..." Sam said sadly as the horse turned and ran.

"Glorfindel is an accomplished warrior and will protect Frodo. He can go swiftly to Rivendell and Frodo will heal quickly under Elrond's care, I am sure," Strider said to Sam, resting a hand on the Hobbit's head. Then he turned to Naurlam. "Will you accompany us?"

Naurlam smiled sadly. "To the border, yes." he said. Strider wet his lips and glanced at the road Glorfindel had taken.

"Lord Elrond spoke in anger to you, dragon. He regretted his hasty decision and let it be known what happened between you and the Lady Galadriel. You have naught to fear from the border guards..." Strider spoke softly. The hobbits stared at them curiously.

"Was banished by Elrond. Will not defy him. Will wait at border," Naurlam said, beginning to walk ahead.

When they reached the border of Rivendell several days later Naurlam did just as he said he would and stayed behind. He took to a large tree in the woods, climbing into a branch and lounging languidly as Strider led the hobbits to see their friend and to recover themselves.

* * *

A bath and a change of clothes had the most interesting way of making one feel most gloriously human again. He strode out into the borders with a large basket in his hands, a most generous gift from an elleth of Imladris that had heard a certain scaled visitor was around the borders. Tesare had reason enough to be grateful for Naurlam's return. It was the dragon's sharp nose that had detected an early pregnancy before she could be given a powerful sedative to sooth her nerves after the loss of her husband. Brethil had died defending Imladris from a wandering group of orcs. It was a tragic accident, of course, but Naurlam had prevented the story from becoming even more tragic by the loss of a child.

Aras, now sixty-four summers old, was in the appearance of a mortal sixteen year old. He was just about old enough to begin going on missions, something that terrified poor Tesare more than she could imagine. It was a welcome distraction for her to put together a welcome basket for her old draconic friend.

He approached the tree he had left the dragon in, looking up into the branches. Gleaming gold eyes stared down at him from the shadows.

"Naurlam, you appear to have a gift from an old friend of yours. Tesare sends her regards and a most fragrant batch of honey oat cakes. I believe she mentioned that you were fond of them," Strider called up into the tree. Naurlam sprang from the branches lightly, a few flutters of his massive wings breaking his fall and stirring up the leaves of the forest floor.

Strider gave the basket to the black dragon, watching with amusement as he tore off the cover and grasped one of the warm cakes, breaking it in half and shoving it into his snout with fervor.

"Eru bless her. She has good heart," Naurlam said, his voice thick with half-chewed cake. Strider laughed.

"For a fearsome meat-eating beast, you are awfully fond of sweets," he observed. Naurlam chewed a bit more before swallowing the cake.

"Not a normal dragon. You know this, Estel," the dragon said. Strider gave a sad little smile.

"Much has happened since you left, dragon. I am no longer just Estel. You heard the Hobbits call me Strider, but that is but one of many names that I hold," Strider began to tell dragon about his past. He told him that he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and all that he was entitled to when the time came for him to take up his crown. While he spoke he toyed with the dragon-scale pendant around his neck, and for a while Naurlam could see a self-sure twelve year old sitting before him, nervous about his future and seeking guidance.

Naurlam set aside his basket and reached out, tilting up the man's face to him. "I knew your worth. I knew you would…be very great, someday. A king! What an honor," Dragon spoke, his words slow and difficult. The man called Aragorn smiled at his childhood friend.

"I'm glad you approve. Perhaps when I am king there will be room for a winged steed in the royal stables- ah!" Dragon whirled him around and grasped his new tunic, shoving it over his head and trapping him in his own clothes. "Dammit, Naurlam!" came Aragorn's muffled voice. When Aragorn managed to free himself Dragon was up in the tree again, munching another of his honey oat cakes and laughing at him from the high branch.

"Don't be an arse," Dragon commented from above him. Aragorn smoothed down his tunic and tried to look regal.

"_Adar _will come and see you dragon, when he is sure young Frodo will be well. He has confidence in the Hobbit's recovery, but he is vigilant nonetheless," Aragorn stated.

"I am glad," Naurlam said simply. Aragorn nodded, trying to keep the grin off of his face, and turned back down the path into Rivendell, leaving the black dragon to his sweets in the tree.

* * *

It was several days before Elrond came to visit the dragon. Many of his friends from before had come out to the borders to see him. The twins had arrived on the first night, toting a large blanket and a large cauldron of stew. They had sat idly and talked with the dragon as he ate, both curious and excited that the trouble-making dragon had learned to speak. His words were stilted and he had to pause often to straighten out his forked tongue, but it was much easier to communicate now than with the vague hand gestures and signals they had used before. They were pleased that Naurlam enjoyed the gift of a large blanket and watched in amusement as he made a bed of leaves and burrowed himself under the blanket. They had said their farewells and walked back down into the city.

And so it was very early in the morning when Elrond traveled up the path. Several elves kept guard over their Lord, though they knew that his own power would be sufficient to defend himself. Elrond found the dragon curled up into a large lump underneath the blanket the twins had given him, only his snout protruding front the edge of the blanket. Lazy tendrils of steam rose from his nostrils as he slept. Suddenly his nose twitched and he inhaled, his head popping out from under the blanket and staring at the elf.

"Naurlam," Elrond intoned gently, bowing his head towards the dragon. For several long moments those keen golden eyes merely stared at him, before the rest of the agile body emerged from beneath the blanket and the beast stretched. The wild had been unkind to him, and the dragon was almost skeletally thin, his broad ribs showing beneath his scaled hide and contrasting starkly to the narrow nip of his waist. Muscles bunched and bones creaked as Dragon stretched like a cat, spreading his impressive wings fully before tucking them neatly against his back. Elrond then noticed the pale scar across the dragon's face, a reminder of Lord Celeborn's deadly intent with the beast.

"Lord Elrond," Naurlam returned neutrally, bowing his triangular head elegantly. There was awkward silence for several minutes.

"I did you a great wrong," Elrond began without preamble. "You defended the Lady Galadriel from a horrifying fate. You defended her honor and indeed went toe-to-toe with the Dark Lord himself, even if was only in a dream. You showed courage and honor….and I betrayed you. I cast you aside without knowing all of the facts. The one with power to face a Dark Lord. The one with strength to sever the ties between the Three Elven Rings and the Betrayer stood at my side and I threw him away because of half-formed facts. I can do little but beg your forgiveness, my friend," Elrond spoke, and surprised the dragon by kneeling in front of him.

"It was very suspicious. We should have waited. But I would not…have let him harm…Lady Galadriel," Naurlam replied, choking on his own words a bit.

Galadriel had indeed tried to help Naurlam. She had touched her Ring of Power against the collar that held him captive in this form. He had not always walked on four legs. He had not always been a member of this world. At one time he had been known as James Sirius Potter, son of Harry Potter, and had enjoyed a life in England, far away from this place. A magical accident had thrown him and three of his friends into this world, situating them firmly into fights they had not started. Galadriel had intended to help James, and had instead trapped them both in a dream world. The only bright spot in that little adventure had been the brief sojourn with his two-legged form.

He was not fully human even without being bound with this collar. He had the form of a Man, but he also was half beast. His black wings and tail stayed with him, his sharp black claws stayed on his hands. He had fangs, pointed ears, and his eyes were still slitted like a cat's. It was the result of a horrendous torture he had endured as a child. He had been taken from his mother and father and…experimented with, for lack of a better word.

The only good thing about his altered form was his connection to magic. His parents had been powerful wizards, but his connection to magic after the incident rivaled no other. He could _feel _magic and could often make it bend to his will when others could not. He was a great experimenter himself because of it. He pushed the limits of what people that possible in the magical world, and had broken all sorts of barriers because of it. It was his thirst for knowledge that led him here, in fact. He had been messing around with a Time Turner…he had replaced the golden parts with mithril from a locket received from his friend Orion Black, son of Sirius Black, and had opened a portal that had led them to Middle Earth.

James had landed in Mordor and had managed to piss of the Dark Lord to the point that the evil fucker and put a collar about his neck that trapped him in his Animagus form, the black dragon, and he had been stuck as such for seventy years. Sixty years ago, when Galadriel had attempted to free him, she had done little more than attract the Dark Lord's attention to them. Sauron had joined them in the dream world they had entered. He had attempted to force himself on the Lady elf, and James had intervened on her behalf. Galadriel's Ring of Power, Nenya, had been bound in that dreamscape, leaving her powerless. But Sauron didn't have as much power as he thought he had, or he kept underestimating James, and had not bound the power of the young wizard. While James had not bested him, he had maneuvered to have the connection between Sauron and the Three Elven Rings of Power severed, allowing Galadriel to buffer back the Dark Lord.

The connection between the two had been physically severed when Lord Celeborn had struck James across the head with his sword, seeking to free his wife from what he thought was the Dragon's influence. They had been injured in the dreamscape and their injuries had translated into their physical bodies. Galadriel had been struck across the head and James had his own bruises, but the sight of the Lady of Lórien bleeding had incited the elves against him. Elrond, fearing that the dragon had betrayed the people he had lived with for eight years, had banished him from Imladris. And so for sixty years he had been away from this place, making his own way in the world and filling the Great Commission Eru himself had given him in a dream.

All in all he'd had a pretty damn eventful life here in Middle Earth.

"I wronged you, friend, and I offer you a formal apology," Elrond said, jerking the dragon James out of his reverie. He had always been known as Naurlam, fire tongue in Sindarín, or just 'dragon' in this world, but he would always be James potter.

"No need," James said softly.

"There is very much a need. Even though I did you injustice you brought the Hobbits safe as far as you could. You escorted them to the borders of Rivendell so that the Black Riders or roving ruffians would not harm them. You shame me with your valor," Elrond said. James sighed.

"Were safe with Est-…safe with Aragorn," James said firmly. He had missed Rivendell deeply, but he really didn't blame Elrond for his quick banishment of him. If he looked at it from the outside, the whole thing with him and Galadriel _had _looked awfully suspicious.

"He told you," Elrond stated. James nodded his head.

"He has a great destiny ahead of him. But it cannot commence until the Dark Lord has been finished off completely. And that cannot happen while that foul Ring still exists. Which brings me to my main reason for coming to you, Naurlam," Elrond began, finally standing to his feet. "There will be a Council to determine the fate of the Ring and the actions that should take place. I wish for you to attend. There will be representatives of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth here, and it would do me a great honor if you would attend," he said, extending a hand towards the dragon.

Hmm…a chance to be back in Rivendell and most likely scare the shit out of some people who didn't know there was a good-hearted dragon on the loose in Arda? Count him right the fuck in! He reached out and placed his large, clawed hand on top of the long-fingered hand extended to him.

"I will attend."

* * *

Hmm…I wonder what sort of shenanigans a fire-breathing lizard can get into whilest at a Council determining what is going to be the fate of Middle Earth? I dunno, I'm not jacked up on enough Mountain Dew to write it yet! Lolololololol….erm…I mean…I have a vague outline in my head and I'm pretty sure James is going to despise Boromir at first. Much hilarity. Like…a lot. I like humor, and the LoTR was such a dark story at times.

I've already screwed around with a lot of the bones of Tolkien's story. This is a fanfiction in the most Alternate of Universes. There's a fucking _dragon _in Rivendell, so don't expect this to be a carbon copy of the books. That being said I will certainly keep as close as possible to the main plot points.

If you haven't read the story before this, A Dragon's Quest, then you may want to do that. This chapter had a bare outline of what happened, but that story (only 16 chapters) will give you a much better understanding. It was a LoTR/HP crossover so when you see some familiar names don't poop yourself. Well, I hope you liked the chapter, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts on it. Don't be afraid to review. I like those things. They are a-may-zing. They make me feel all warm and tingly in places I can't show in polite society. :D


	3. When the Future is Decided

Yay! Chapter tres. Now I had a few comments about James' quick 'forgiveness' of Elrond. Even though it has been literally no time in our present reality, to James it has been sixty years. And though he was in Slytherin and a lot of people associate that house with anger and Darkness, James has been portrayed as someone who lets the past go. Even the incident that left him half-dragon didn't draw his bitterness and anger. Now, another reviewer pointed out that just because he forgave him didn't mean he still trusted him. *Beams* How bright you all are!

I hope everyone is enjoying so far. I would love to hear your thoughts and even guesses about this story. I also had someone ask why no one has tried to control James through the collar. When I gave it to him, I admit I thought about it. Then I decided that with Sauron's limited power and being bound to Barad Dûr, he wouldn't be able to do much. He really bound James and set him free to cause problems, because he's a giant douche like that.

I have before me a copy of Fellowship of the Ring. The council scene is like frigging twenty pages. So for creative license I used a _variation _on the movie scene. It isn't word for word, although many quotes are there, so don't just skip over that scene thinking I copied and pasted. Lol, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 3 – When the Future is Decided

Oh God…all the people! He would admit, though, that the looks on everyone's faces when he showed up were rather hilarious. Even the Dwarves…no…_especially _the Dwarves. They looked like hell itself had opened up in the middle of the dining hall and Satan had started passing out invitations. The Dwarves looked ready to take up their weapons against him, and the visiting Elves looked distinctly sick. Elrond had politely offered him a position at the High Table, but he had denied it, instead choosing to sit at the end of one of the smaller tables where he could recline on his haunches and not impede their chairs. An elderly Hobbit sat to one side of him, staring up at him with open curiosity and not a little fear.

"You are much smaller than Smaug," the Hobbit said openly. James' slitted eyes narrowed slightly.

"Different breeds," he replied, startling the hobbit.

"Oh! You speak too! But your voice is much nicer than Smaug's, anyway. And I must confess you do not smell," the Hobbit continued. James blinked.

"Er….thanks?" he supplied. The Hobbit laughed sweetly. James tilted his head a bit at the aging creature. "You must be Bilbo."

"Aye! That would be me, Master Dragon. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End at your service!" the Hobbit supplied, his eyes twinkling up at him. James was aware that many eyes watched the interaction between the two with great interest, having known Bilbo's part in the eventual destruction of Smaug. James grinned, his white fangs glinting in the light of the Great Hall.

"James, Son of Harry. Also known as Naurlam." he said politely, extending a claw towards the Hobbit. His front paws were very similar to hands, much to his relief, with opposable thumbs that made it very easy for him to grasp and hold things as he would have in his human form. The Hobbit took his outstretched hand, the smaller hand of the creature only able to grasp three of his larger fingers.

"Nice to meet you, James Firetongue," he replied. "Now, I don't know if you've ever had this roast beef, but if you add a bit of mushroom gravy to it, it is most divine!" the Hobbit launched into a friendly narrative about the different foods at the feast. James merely smiled and nodded, serving his own plate to the recommendations of the old hobbit.

He retired to his old quarters, which had not been touched in his absence. James found it strange that for sixty years the room had gone uninhabited, but the maid that attended him told him in a quiet voice that Lord Elrond had ordered the room kept as it was. He knew from his gift of foresight that Naurlam would be back, and he would have his room ready to welcome him once more.

When the maid had left him he walked to the long table that sat under his open window, looking at the trinkets he had left behind in his frenzied banished flight from Rivendell. There was a small pile of scales sitting on one end, and several carved figures that he had whittled with his own claws. One was even of his friend Draca Malfoy's Animagus form, which was a unicorn. He reached out and touched the carved unicorn reverently, running a finger over the arches of its back and down its tail. He missed his friends greatly.

He wondered what he was doing back here. It had seemed such a brilliant idea at the time to come back to Imladris. He hadn't seen the place in six decades, and he had felt a longing rather like homesickness to come back. He had missed the people…_mostly. _ He didn't miss the way they had looked at him when he had been cast out. He remembered the cold look on the Lord of Rivendell's face when he had told him to leave and never return under a most painful threat of death. And here he was, sitting in his old room and staring out into one of the gardens as though naught had happened.

Very suddenly a face appeared in his window, causing James to yelp in surprise. He had a mouthful of fire ready to spit before he realized that it was one of the visiting Elves that he had seen in the Great Hall. The fire died in his mouth, leaving an ashy taste on his tongue. The elf was blond and…male? He squinted a bit. Yea, the elf was male. He had soft grey eyes and his mouth was set in a frown, marring his fair visage.

He sprang in through the open window, surprising James with his audacity.

"Well. No 'by your leave?'" James asked snippily, sitting on his haunches and wrapping his tail around him. The tip tapped impatiently at the floor.

"Scales as black as midnight, yet they shine with a dark rainbow of colors. Eyes gold as fine jewelry and slitted like a cat's. Long legged and the size of a horse," the male elf said, as if he were quoting something. James' slitted eyes were fixed on him, not looking away from the bright, piercing gaze.

"Do you know me?" James asked, the tip of his tail going very still. Something about this elf made him feel threatened.

"No," the elf replied, his fine flaxen eyebrows knitting together slightly as he observed the dragon. "But I know Draca," he said. The ridges over James' eyes that served like eyebrows shot up comically high, and he sprang to his feet in surprise.

"What?!" he exclaimed. "Where is she? Does she live? Who else has she….does she know where…are the others with…" he was speaking so fast he was choking on his own words. Finally he lifted a paw and slapped it against the floor in frustration. "Damn my tongue!" he snarled, and began to stalk back and forth in front of the elf.

"She has visited my father's realm many times since she arrived in Arda," the elf supplied. "I am Legolas of the Mirkwood realm, son of King Thranduil. Draca came to the Dark Wood sixty years ago and stayed until she became an Istar. She traveled to be with Saruman the White and train as one of the Istari. She last visited Mirkwood ten years ago, but I have not seen her since. There was another wizard who visited the wood two years after she came the first time. He was called Orion," Legolas said. The dragon seemed shocked for several moments, before the sharp face crumpled. Legolas took a step back when large tears leaked from the dragon's eyes.

James lifted a claw to hide his face as he wept. Seventy years he had not heard one word from any of his friends. And now this elf had heard from two of them. At least Orion had been alive seventy years ago. And Draca had been seen ten years ago. But where were they now? He swiped hastily at his eyes and pierced the blond elf with a golden glare.

"Did you know Phelan?" he asked. Legolas seemed to be thinking back.

"No one mentioned seeing the one called Phelan. Orion left to search for you and Phelan further south. I believe he may have gone as far as Harad seeking you," he said.

"Harad…" James breathed. "Never went to Harad. Have looked so long. Could not find them…" And he seemed to dissolve before Legolas. He laid down on his belly and covered his eyes with his hands, weeping softly.

Legolas had felt morbid curiosity for this dragon. When Lord Elrond had announced the beast at dinner he had felt utter sickness and shock. What a foul creature to bring into fair Rivendell….! But Lord Elrond had made it clear that the dragon, which he referred to as 'Naurlam,' had his full trust and was to be treated as any other guest of Imladris. Whether or not it was true had yet to be seen.

Draca had often spoken of James Potter. The man had her admiration, and Legolas supposed he also had her heart, if the two were honest with themselves and each other. Legolas was all right with that, because he had only ever seen Draca as a little sister, a sibling he never had. The short few years she had been in Mirkwood she had made the place brighter. Even his father admitted much later that he had not despised the presence of the Lady Wizard. And from his father that was high praise indeed.

He felt pity for the beast in front of him. Seventy years he had been separated from his friends. At least Draca had seen and spoke to Orion to see that he was all right. James had seen no one. And it seemed that he couldn't just go around asking, either. Dragons were of ill regard in Arda, with good reason. They had been allied to Morgoth and had served the first Dark Lord loyally. Ancalagon the Black had caused great damage with his massive body.

But dragons did not weep. According to Draca, this was a wizard who could assume the form of a dragon. But he did not appear to be able to take his other form, to change back as Draca had done when she became the unicorn.

"You are not truly a dragon, are you?" Legolas asked. After a few moments the soft sobs abated and the dragon raised its head. The slitted eyes still glistened a bit and the flesh around his eyes was moist.

"Nay. I am Shape shifter," James said, shaking his head a bit to clear it. He was actually beginning to get a bit embarrassed that he had cried in front of this elf. But the news had been so overwhelming that it had just…slipped out.

"Why do you not change back? I recall Draca becoming that fantastic horse-beast, the unicorn, and then reclaiming her other form."

James reached up and touched the dark collar around his neck. Since the fight between him and Sauron, he had not felt the Dark Lord's presence in the collar, but still the magic of the artifact bound him to his dragon form. He was glad that the Dark Lord no longer could affect him through the metal, but it still ate at him to not be able to be human. He missed his two-legged form terribly.

"Trapped. I am trapped," James said softly, his claws grazing the metal before pulling away. He pinned the elf with a sharp look. "Go away now. Wish to be alone," he snapped, turning and padding heavily to the cushioned area that had been his bed. He nosed up underneath a blanket quickly, hiding under the fabric and leaving only his tail exposed, swishing back and forth angrily across the floor.

Legolas gave one last curious look at the dragon before leaping out the window and bounding across the grass.

* * *

He sat in the garden on a large rock, absorbing the late October sun on his scales. He had a basket of Tesare's freshly baked sweets next to him and a bowl of fresh water on the other side. Ah…it had been a truly long time since he had been able to relax fully. He would not tell the others where he had spent the majority of the past sixty years. They would never trust him. It wasn't like he had just decided to go vacation in Mordor, but honestly it wasn't too much better.

He reached out and grabbed an apple fritter, popping it into his mouth and chewing lazily with his eyes closed. He heard heavy, close footfalls and opened his eyes to see one of the Dwarves staring at him. He was younger than the white-bearded Glóin, his beard magnificently auburn in the light of the sun. He was wearing the traditional angular dwarven armor and an armored cap sat upon his head. He was lightly armed with a dagger at his waist. James was pretty sure Elrond had asked this specific dwarf to stop carrying around a large battle-axe in the halls of Rivendell.

"What a foul creature you are," the dwarf said gruffly. James did not move, but continued to stare at the dwarf silently. "Dragons are not to be trusted…elves are little better. Never did my father and I imagine that we would be walking into a dragon's den. It seems like only yesterday we were clearing Smaug out of the Lonely Mountain." He said. James yawned pointedly, stretching his jaws and showing off his sharp teeth.

"I'm a guest, too. Am trying to relax," James replied, his head still reclining on his front paws.

"Relax whilest you can, monster-beast. I just wanted to let you know that we dwarves have our eyes on you. Lord Elrond may trust you, but the only trustworthy dragon is a dead dragon," the dwarf spat angrily. James suddenly leapt from his rock. The dwarf drew his dagger but held his ground. James began to circle him like a predator, his golden eyes glowing angrily in the light of the Autumn day.

"People underestimate my size. I am _not _Smaug. I am _not _Ancalagon. But I _am _Dragon. Still can breathe fire. Claws are still sharp. Teeth can still tear. But I am different. I have something…the others didn't. I possess mercy," James said. The dwarf listened to the broken, stilted speech with little interest. "Don't test me, though. I _do_ possess mercy. Do _not_ possess patience," he said. He turned and grabbed his bowl of apple fritters and water before he shot upwards with a surge of his large wings, blowing the dwarf's hair and beard into disarray as he flew onto a rooftop to continue his relaxation. The dwarf shielded his eyes from the blown dust, and then his angry gaze settled back on the dragon when it landed on one of the high tiled roofs.

"I'm watching you, dragon."

* * *

Aragorn rose early on the morning of the council. He washed thoroughly but donned his travel worn clothes in the stead of the fine Elvish clothing that his room was supplied with. He wanted to face the fate of Middle Earth as a Ranger: a protector, a guardian, a warrior. Not as the finely dressed foster son of an elf. He did, however, make an effort to his appearance by neatly combing his hair and trimming his beard. Naurlam had insulted him the previous night by calling him a scruffamuffin. He had then explained slowly that it was a word combination of 'scruffy ragamuffin.' Aragorn had not been very pleased with this description of his person. He knew that the wilds made men a bit rough around the edges, but he was hardly young enough to be a ragamuffin. Dragon, though, had merely pointed out that Aragorn was younger than _him,_ and would always be the cocksure twelve-year-old trying to commit an extremely complicated and roundabout suicide in the woods.

Well he was an accomplished warrior now, and he would have to demand the respect of Naurlam later. He opened the door to his room and was quite proud of himself for not shrieking in rather unmanly way when he came face-to-snout with the dragon. The dragon gave an amused grin and his forked tongue shot out, tickling at Aragorn's nose before the ranger batted him away.

"Dragon! That is highly inappropriate. You are _definitely _not my type!" Aragorn replied easily. Dragon rumbled a laugh and turned from the door, beginning to walk down the hallway. His long talons clicked on the floor as he walked.

"Arwen is your type," Naurlam replied. Aragorn gave a sad smile that the dragon didn't see.

"She is too good for me, even if I sat on the throne of Gondor at this very moment," Aragorn said, an almost shy tone to his voice. Dragon's head turned as he walked, looking at the warrior sharply.

"Stop fishing for compliments. You love her. She loves you. You will be king. She could be queen," Naurlam told him, waggling his ridged eyebrows in a speculative manner. Aragorn slapped the hindquarters of the dragon, doing little but making his own hand smart. Dragon's tail flicked sharply and gave him a crack across his bottom. "Stop touching my arse. You're not my type," Dragon said cheekily. With an uncharacteristic cackle Naurlam took off running, and Aragorn followed behind him with a frustrated yell of his own.

They were the last to enter the porch where the council took place. He very nearly blushed when Elrond sent him a sharp glance. He may be over eighty years old, but that didn't mean that Lord Elrond's glares were any less intimidating. Dragon seemed to shrug it off and continue on.

* * *

James spotted someone new at the Council. He was cloaked and booted as though he had traveled on horseback. He looked even scruffier than Aragorn at this point, his clothes stained from travel. But upon closer inspection the clothes were of rich material, dirty though they were. His cloak was lined with fur and his silver collar was set with a white stone. On a baldric he wore a great horn tipped with silver that was now set upon his knees. His hair was shoulder length and dark in color, his sharp grey eyes staring in wonder at Bilbo and Frodo. He had clearly never seen Hobbits before.

His gaze shifted from the hobbits to the newcomers and his face lost color rather rapidly at the sight of the dragon. He reacted quickly enough, though. He withdrew a fine dagger from his belt and heaved it at the dragon's head, aiming for his eye and a quick kill.

James and Aragorn had been nearly upon him, and so James had only a fraction of a second to pluck the dagger out of the air with a lightning fast reflex worthy of any Seeker. He whirled with the momentum of the blade and then he was in the man's personal space, the tip of the dagger having been turned and was pointing unwaveringly at his face.

"You dropped this," James said simply, twirling the dagger in his hand so that the handle faced the stranger.

"Here now!" Elrond said impatiently. "This is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived early this morning and seeks counsel. I have bidden him to be present; for it is here his questions will be answered. Master Boromir, as horrifying as it sounds, this dragon is friend to Rivendell and has my trust. I would ask you not to draw weapon against him, and in return I also ask Naurlam, that is to say Fire Tongue, not to seek retribution against you, for you did not know his status here," Elrond said, looking between the Man and Dragon.

"He started it," James said, before padding over and sitting next to the old hobbit, Bilbo. Bilbo and the dragon had become strange but steadfast acquaintances, often being found in each other's presence. It was both horrifying and hilarious.

Elrond stood before the council of people.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate-this one doom." He gestured towards a plinth that had been put at the front of the semicircle of seats. "Bring forth the ring, Frodo."

The young Hobbit stepped forward, trembling slightly as he laid the ring on the pedestal and went back to his seat. He looked distinctly relieved to be rid of the burden, even for a moment.

"The Doom of Men," someone whispered softly. James stared at the ring, his head tilting sharply this way and that as he listened to the empty promises it whispered.

"So it is true," Boromir said. He stood from his seat, looking unsettled and speculative all at once. "In a dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark. But in the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: Your doom is near at hand." He approached the Ring on the plinth. "Isildur's Bane is found."

His hand extended over the ring, and all eyes were on him. A strange look passed before his eyes as his hand descended towards the ring.

"Boromir!" Elrond said loudly. It seemed to break the strange reverie that had come over him, but there was a crackle of dark magic over the surface of the Ring. Gandalf's blue eyes hardened like chips of steel, and he opened his mouth and began to speak. The words of the Black speech made the Elves clap their hands over their ears and even the Dwarves looked unsettled. Bilbo and Frodo seemed to close in on themselves, trembling like leaves in a hurricane.

James suddenly felt the connection in the collar flare to life. He heard the harsh, grating laughter in his ears and the dark metal of the collar lit up with sudden fire and they heard another voice speaking the Black Tongue. It seemed to come from everywhere that shadow touched; underneath the seats, the corners of the porch, and even the shadows cast by the bodies seemed to speak as one.

"_Nazg Ob Burguul, Krimp Afar Bal_

_Shabtur ob ta Ni di Pral_

_Kulkador Ob Dor Larg_

_U ta kamab Annatar_

_Ring of shadow, bound by flame_

_Servant of the one unnamed_

_Dragon sent from world afar_

_To the feet of Annatar"_

James' mouth opened in a silent scream of agony as the metal seared against his scales. He bounded forwards a few steps and fell to the ground, dragging his neck against the stones in a vain attempt to ease his torture. Several people shot from their seats, scattering as James' clawed feet slashed wildly. It was Aragorn who dodged the claws and shot forward, chanting an elvish hymn to try and counteract the dark magic in the collar. Still singing he glanced at the other Elves around him, motioning with his hands for them to take up the song with him. They began softly at first, and when the searing light in the collar began to fade, all those who knew the hymn began to sing, even Elrond himself adding his voice to the mix.

When the angry light finally faded and James' limbs stopped flailing the dragon lay trembling, his eyes hooded and his breathing shallow. Slowly he raised his head, seeking out Gandalf with pain-dimmed eyes. The wizard was looking at him in concern, and James pulled his lips back off his teeth in a half-hearted sneer.

"Don't do that again," he whispered brokenly. Elrond looked at Gandalf with anger in his normally calm eyes.

"Never before has any voice dared utter that tongue here in Imladris!" he reproached. Gandalf sat in his seat beside Frodo, looking worn and tired.

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring is altogether Evil!"

"It is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor! Why not use this ring?" Boromir stood from his seat, his heavy boots thudding lightly against the floor as he began to pace. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. The power it has is legendary. When in the presence of it even the dragon is subdued! Let us bring the Master of Mordor to his knees with his own weapon!" Boromir said fervently, his eyes gleaming.

"You cannot wield it! None of us can! The Ring has only one Master. It answers to Sauron alone," Aragorn said sharply, taking James' head into his lap and stroking at the heated scales.

"And what would a _Ranger _know of this matter?" Boromir asked bitingly. The elf Legolas stood to his feet, anger written clearly on his face.

"This is no mere Ranger! This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance!" he said, his deep, ageless eyes glaring at Boromir.

"Aragorn? This…this is…Isildur's heir?" he asked. He seemed disappointed in the roughly dressed ranger, his eyes flicking to the dragon lying in his lap. The dragon finally struggled into a sitting position as Legolas made one more smart comment to Boromir.

"He is heir to the throne of Gondor, _Steward's son_," Legolas said.

"_Havo dad, Legolas._ This is not the way to solve this," Aragorn said, standing to his feet now that Naurlam was feeling better. Boromir was still staring at Aragorn. He appeared to be having an internal struggle about something, and then his face hardened.

"Long has Gondor flourished without a King. Gondor does not need a King," he said softly, and sat back down in his seat.

"Aragorn is right. This tool of the enemy cannot be wielded by any other than the foul being who made it," Gandalf said sternly.

"There is but one choice," Elrond said, his gaze falling to the ring. "The Ring must be destroyed," He continued, his gaze lifting and shifting around the room to look at the representatives of the Free Peoples.

"What are we waiting for, then?" One of the Dwarves asked gruffly. Then there was a spectacular noise and crack of dark energy as the dwarf shattered his axe against the Ring of power. James' eyes, lidded with lingering pain, noticed that Frodo was staring at the Ring with contempt and confusion on his face, and his small hand was on his forehead.

"Stop giving him weapons!" James hissed softly, his paw coming up to rub at his ringing ears. He knew the elves were _feeling _the sharp clang of the exploding axe.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this." Elrond said, his words making them all pause and look around nervously. There was a deep, resigned sigh from Boromir.

"One does not simply _walk _into Mordor," he said.

"I did," James snapped at him. All eyes were on the dragon. "I also walked out. On four legs, true….Mordor is well protected….but walls have weaknesses. There's always a way," he finished, his voice much softer. Boromir sneered at him.

"Its black gates are guarded by more than just walls. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. But perhaps this is not a problem for a creature whose very breath is fire and ash and dust? But I say you could not do this with ten thousand men. It is folly!" he said.

"Eyes can be blinded. Soldiers can be defeated. Lands can be conquered. Your defeat is inevitable…if you don't even…start to fight," James spoke evenly to Boromir. The son of the Steward laughed harshly.

"You want to blind the Eye of Sauron? What are you going to do? Will you fly over the tower of Barad Dûr and shit in the Dark Lord's eye?" he asked contemptuously. James got a look of fierce concentration on his face.

"Goddammit…..that's a _great_ idea!" he said excitedly. Then he noticed the horrified looks everyone was sending him. "I mean, no! That's a _terrible_ idea!" he amended quickly.

Legolas stood from his seat and spoke harshly to Boromir, which then caused the whole scene to descend into a chaotic argument. James did not participate and there were several people trying to get everyone's attention and restore order. James noticed Frodo stand from his seat and say something quietly. When the young hobbit realized that no one had heard him, he took a deep breath.

"I will take it!" he shouted loudly. The arguments stopped abruptly and Frodo stood straight, his face filled with fear and a steely resolve. "I will take the ring to Mordor- though I do not know the way…" he finished, blinking rapidly as though to keep tears at bay. Gandalf stepped towards him and set a gnarled hand on the hobbit's shoulder.

"I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear," he said solemnly.

"If by my life or death I can protect you, I will do it," Aragorn said, standing in front of the hobbit and placing his hand over his heart. "You have my sword," and he bowed to the hobbit.

Legolas stepped forward and made a similar motion, bowing towards Frodo. "You have my bow," he said solemnly. Gimli huffed a bit at the elf before bowing to Frodo as well.

"And my axe!" he exclaimed, before looking chagrined. "As soon as it is replaced," he added in an undertone. Glóin looked on at his son with misty eyes, proud of his eager defense of Middle Earth. Boromir stepped away from where he had been standing and approached Frodo. He went on one knee before him, his hand on his heart.

"You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done," he said solemnly.

"Here now!" A voice suddenly piped, and a short figure emerged, rushing up to the overwhelmed Hobbit. "Mr. Frodo ain't goin' nowhere without me!" Sam said gruffly, standing at Frodo's side and crossing his arms like a bodyguard. A few of the elves tittered at the stout Hobbit's resolve. Elrond seemed slightly amused at the other hobbit.

"No indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

"Wait now! We're coming too!" And then Merry and Pippin emerged from another crevice on the porch, crowding Sam and Frodo to look menacing.

"You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!" Merry said stubbornly. Elrond looked slightly put out that not only one, but three Hobbits had managed to sneak into his 'secret council.'

"Besides that, you'll need people with intelligence for this mission…quest…thing," Pippin said boldly, gesturing with one hand to attempt to convey his message.

"Well that rules you out, Pip…" Merry said in an undertone.

James stood to his feet shakily and approached the group, his claws raking tiredly against the stones as he walked. He stopped in front of Frodo and lowered his head towards the ground in a low bow.

"I would fly you…all the way…if you required it. My wings…my teeth…my claws are yours. You have my fire," he said slowly, flames forming in his mouth and licking around his lips to iterate his point.

"Ten compaions. So mote it be! A communion of people fighting for the free world. I name you the Fellowship of the Ring," Elrond said.

"That sounds fruity…" James said softly. Pippin beamed excitedly, feeling triumphant that he and Merry would be accompanying their friends.

"This is great. Where are we going?"

* * *

Dammit, Pippin. Stop being so damned cute!

So yea. I hope there was some good stuff in this chapter. I want to hear some opinions on the matter. As I've said before: I won't ransom the story for reviews. I think that's dumb. But for a story that does require effort and thought and does not receive payment, a nice review is as gold to us fanfiction writers. I actually research things that I put into the story. I researched the Dragons of Morgoth and the three Elven Rings and stuff like that before throwing it in willy-nilly. :3

I hope to hear from some of my fansies, and I hope you're all enjoying as much as I am. I have been so eager to write this story, and sometimes my mind goes faster than my fingers can get out a chapter! I've got vague plans for all the way through Amon Hen (but I'm not telling) And then in my mind everything goes to hell. My brain literally explodes and there's grey matter everywhere and I have to scoop it up and put it back so I can write more for you guys. :D

Peace, my home skillet biscuits!


	4. Preparing the Way

Not a lot of response from the last chapter. My face is sad. :( I typed up an awesome council scene for you guys. Boromir said his _line._ His _meme _line. There was a _dragon _in the council that has befriended Bilbo! I…I made Dark Magic sparkles and shadow voices. _What more do you want?_

How about Sauron dancing naked in Barad Dûr and singing show tunes? Pfft….F**k that! I'll not have that nancy shit in my story! Elves can sing and dance, but Dark Lords Murder and…bake? No, fuck, that's not it. Uh…they Murder and…..write poetry? Poetry about murder? Close enough!

Now that I've proved my insanity I hope you enjoy this newest chapter. It's chapter four. The one after three. ^_^

* * *

Chapter 4 – Preparing the Way

After dinner he usually retired to the Fire Hall for some genuine relaxation. The music there was always tame and soothing unless one of the Elves decided to get maudlin and sing about someone's death. It was actually more common than he would have liked. But tonight there seemed to be a pervasive joy. Bilbo was much beloved among the elves, reciting stories and singing songs. But as James dozed he heard the hobbit say his name loudly.

"James Firetongue! Do me the honor of singing something from your home. I would love to hear a dragon's song," he said. The elves began to murmur amongst themselves. While Naurlam had resided in Rivendell before he had not spoken, and therefore had not sang. Could his newfound speaking voice translate to singing?

If James' face wasn't black as pitch he would have been blushing.

"I don't think that-."

"Nonsense! Do not be shy. I would consider it a great favor," Bilbo said gently. James' brows furrowed slightly and he shifted uncomfortably. The hobbit was a great acquaintance. He was humorous and entertaining, and had often sat with the black dragon in the gardens or in the library as they worked on various preparations of the departure of the Fellowship. He respected the old hobbit, and would in fact do about anything for him.

"For anyone else…I would decline," he began, and stood up from where he had curled near the fire. "But for you, Bilbo…I will sing," he finished, trotting to where the hobbit was standing. Several Elves were gathered around, all watching in open fascination as the dragon approached. James sat beside the aging hobbit and cleared his throat nervously.

He had discovered that for some unknown reason he could sing better than he could talk. He was pretty sure it was because Eru was laughing his arse off at him up in the cosmos. And it couldn't be cheated, either. He couldn't just _sing _words, he had to sing a _song _for the effect to work. And there really wasn't much cause for him to just go around singing, so the gift wasn't used often. Nevertheless he cleared his throat again, thinking of a song to sing. And it came to him suddenly. It was from an animated movie he had watched with his father long ago, about a young man's journey to find acceptance. Though it didn't _exactly _fit with his situation, it was close enough to be poignant to him.

_I have often dreamed  
Of a far off place  
Where a great warm welcome  
Will be waiting for me  
Where the crowds will cheer  
When they see my face  
And a voice keeps saying  
This is where I'm meant to be_

_I will find my way  
I can go the distance  
I'll be there some day  
If I can be strong  
I know every mile  
Will be worth my while  
I would go most anywhere  
To find where I belong_

He paused for a moment as the song began to sink in.

"Please don't stop. It's beautiful, James," Bilbo whispered reverently. James took a deep breath and continued. His voice was deep and rich, a lovely smoky quality to it that caressed the ears gently and filtered deep into the soul. Bilbo had goose pimples up and down his arms from the eerily lovely voice of the dragon.

_Down an unknown road  
To embrace my fate  
Though that road may wander  
It will lead me to you  
And a thousand years  
Would be worth the wait  
It might take a lifetime  
But somehow I'll see it through  
_

_And I won't look back  
I can go the distance  
And I'll stay on track  
No I won't accept defeat  
It's an uphill slope  
But I won't lose hope  
Till I go the distance  
And my journey is complete  
_

_But to look beyond the glory is the hardest part  
__For a hero's strength is measured by his heart_

The bridge of the song was always his favorite part. When his father used to sit with him and tell him stories of his fantastic yet terrifying childhood, he always wondered why his father had never enjoyed the attention that came to him. Because he himself was always mistrusted and maligned he had always figured that the kind of celebrations that went on in his father's name would be more to his liking. He wanted to be a hero like his father so that people would love him. But Harry had always told him that being a hero wasn't about what people thought of you. Thoughts like that created people like Gilderoy Lockhart, who sought the approval and love of a society through any means necessary, including harming others to take their stories. Being a hero was about intent and heart, and this song had been the favorite of his childhood because of it.

_Like a shooting star  
I will go the distance  
I will search the world  
I will face its harms  
I don't care how far  
I can go the distance  
'Til I find my hero's welcome  
Waiting in your arms..._

That's what he was fighting for, wasn't it? He missed all of his friends equally, that much was true…but he wanted Draca more than anything in the world. He missed the smell of her perfume wafting past him. He missed the sound of her laugh and the sweet feeling of hugging her to him after a long day. She was such a caring person…he prayed fervently to Eru that she was all right. In his mind each night he begged for her safety. He would gladly give up his own life in a terrible and gory way if it would guarantee her safety. But he knew things like that didn't always work out.

But there was always hope…

_I will search the world  
I will face its harms  
'Til I find my hero's welcome  
Waiting in your arms_

He did not wait for anyone's response before he turned and ran from the hall. He bounded into one of the gardens and shot straight into the tree.

"I heard your song,"

He looked to the side to see Legolas on a branch next to him, sitting calm-as-you-please and swinging his legs over the branch.

"Don't like to sing," James replied, leaning against the trunk of the tree.

"You're singing about Draca, aren't you?" he asked. James' chest heaved with the force of his sigh and Legolas could smell the heavy scent of smoke on his breath.

"I miss them all….but she is special," he finally admitted.

"I thought as much," Legolas said. They sat in silence for several long minutes. "I have not been privy to the plans and routes that the company has been picking out. Gandalf is our main commander and will lead us on foot to the Black Land. Behind him in status is Aragorn. Boromir is slowly beginning to accept Aragorn's authority," Legolas spoke matter-of-factly to the dragon, and James appreciated the neutral conversation. "Are you nervous to travel?"

"Terrified. But I will go….to the ends…of the Earth…to see this through," James spoke, his claws tightening on the branch. He could feel the tree protesting to the treatment. "Sorry…" he mumbled. Legolas' curious face turned towards him.

"Do you hear the trees?" he asked.

"Depends. Strong emotions I can…understand from them. I am not…a monster," he said.

"I do not think you a monster. A terrifying creature, certainly. Worthy of fear and much awe, yes. But you have far too much mercy and kindness to be a monster. A monster would not sing in the Hall of Fire. A monster would not be friends with an aging Hobbit. A monster would not have rescued a twelve-year-old and personally nursed him back to health," Legolas said tilting his head back to look up at the stars through the foliage.

"He told you."

"Aye, he did. A most interesting beginning you two shared," Legolas commented. "I must make an abrupt change of topic, Firetongue. The twins have told me stories of a massive bow you constructed here when first you lived in Rivendell. My curiosity is piqued. Archery is my area of expertise and I would find it an honor to see a bow large enough to be wielded by a dragon," Legolas said.

James welcomed the change of subject with a broad grin.

"Then follow, Master Legolas…and I shall show…you my Dragon's Bow," he said, leaping gracefully from the tree.

* * *

Before the Fellowship was scheduled to set out the sword of Elendil was forged anew by Elven smiths. The blade was intricately decorated with a device of seven stars set between the crescent Moon and the rayed Sun, and about them was written many runes. Aragorn sat and explained each rune to Naurlam one evening as the sword was balanced between the deep red glow of day and the cold silver sheen of night. After the re-forging of the sword Aragorn bestowed the blade with a new name: Andúril, Flame of the West. The dragon admitted to him that it was 'wicked awesome looking.' He was amused at Naurlam's exuberance sometimes.

There was much discussion and planning in the days that passed. Gandalf and Aragorn were in council for hours at a time discussing routes and weighing the advantages and disadvantages of each path. Naurlam found himself at odds with the wizard when he had tried to add his opinion for their journey. Naurlam had calmly pointed out that not only had he seen many of these paths as he trod them, but he had also surveyed a lot of the land from the air, too.

"You are much too obvious to be floating about like some fire-breathing butterfly," Gandalf had said gruffly. Naurlam stared blankly at him.

"Butterfly? You wrinkly dick munch!" he snapped. Magic crackled around the tip of Gandalf's staff and fire licked at the dragon's lips.

"Both of you need to stop!" Aragorn said sternly. "Gandalf, we trust your judgment on our pathway. Naurlam, your presence is much appreciated and will be a great boon to us, but Gandalf has traveled this world for a _very _long time, and his is the authority we will yield to on our travels," he said diplomatically. Naurlam gave him a blank look before nodding his head politely and walking away to see to his own packing.

The dragon had commissioned several personalized items. While everyone had been provided with cloaks and warm clothing, Naurlam had made sure that they remembered to get gloves. And he wasn't fool enough to think he didn't need them himself. They were going over the Caradhras, and his poor scaled hands and feet would not tread through snow without some kind of barrier. So they made thick leather gauntlets for him, leaving only the tip of his claws exposed for self-defense and gripping. It actually took trial and error with that one. He had spent several hours tripping and skidding around Imladris in full gloves before they figured out they needed palm and finger grips and to shear off the tip of the fingers.

They also made similar leather sheaths for his back feet and lined both sets of leathers with thick fur. He had been re-gifted with the cloaked vest that Tesare had made for him long ago. She had made sure the stitching still held and had even embroidered a stylized dragon head on one corner of the cloak. The dragon admitted he felt very rich indeed.

But then Boromir suggested they use him _and _a pony as pack animals.

* * *

"Bloody buggering fuck no!" James snapped angrily.

"You are stronger than any here, even the damned horse! I do not see why you shouldn't carry a percentage more of supplies," Boromir argued stubbornly.

"I am not…a pack animal! I am sentient! I have intelligence. I will not be…your winged mule!" James returned, going nearly snout-to-nose with the Steward's son.

"I do not like you, dragon. But this Fellowship needs everyone to pull their weight. And we will not ask the Hobbits to carry a Man's load. And even Legolas will carry an Elf's load, being stronger than a Man. But you should be expected to carry a Dragon's load," the man tried to reason. Those golden eyes seemed to pierce his soul.

"I will agree…to carry more. But I will not…carry a pack animal's…share," James finished slowly.

"Strength is one thing, Boromir…Naurlam is our equal in this endeavor and we will not treat him as a second class animal," Aragorn had approached while the two argued. Boromir looked frazzled and ready to give up.

"You take his side over your own people! He _is _an animal! He's an Eru-forsaken _dragon_. He breathes _fire _and has _wings,_" Boromir said. He shook his head in disgust. "We're all going to die. I will see this through to my last breath if need be, but I will have no sympathy on any of you when the beast accidentally roasts you," he muttered angrily, stalking off to see to his own packing.

The morning of their departure was soon upon them.

* * *

He stood in front of them, walking back and forth silently with his hands clasped behind his back, like a general addressing his soldiers. They stood adjusting the leather armor they had been given.

Harry Potter found himself the makeshift general of a rather sorry, rag-tag army. He had an inkling of where his son, James, had gotten off to, but he needed the help of a few wizards to get there and back. He was _almost_ positive he could get back, and that was why it was so difficult to get people together. He had petitioned to the Minister of Magic, who was incidentally his brother-in-law, Percy Weasley, to allow him to take a full regiment of Aurors. He was a Captain of the Aurors and he knew his men, and knew they would be of use.

Percy had told him under no uncertain terms that he could not use Ministry employees for what was certain to be a suicide mission. So Harry had done the next best thing: recruit. As it happened the only people willing to go with him were the people who had a stake in those they were going after. It was a tiny group of three that would go after the four lose wizards.

It had only been a year ago that they had finally figured out what the _fuck _James had done. They had tried and tried to recreate his experiment, but it failed every time. What the Unspeakables under Harry's employ had finally discovered was that it was a mixture of several things that had contributed to James' magical catastrophe. He had replaced the golden pieces of the Time Turner with mithril. Mithril was extremely hard to come by and ridiculously expensive. The mithril that James had gotten had come from a locket that Orion had retrieved from his family vault.

What had ruined James was he did not pry the stones from the locket before re-forging the silver. The diamonds set into the stone had mixed with the Time Turner sand and created a reaction so powerful that it had opened a portal to…wherever James and the others were. And so they were going to recreate it. On purpose.

Sirius Black was not so much a surprise in his volunteering. His only child, Orion, was stuck in the world with James, Draca Malfoy and Phelan Greyback. Though he was displeased that Orion had gotten himself entangled, he would give his life if it was required to bring his son home. Orion's mother was in deep depression since his disappearance, and Sirius knew that if he didn't do something to find his son it would have only been a matter of time before he and Esmeralda split up.

The greatest surprise had been in the form of one Lucius Malfoy. Harry had half expected Draco to volunteer for the expedition, or even Scorpius, Draca's brother, but Draco had applied to Scorpius' reasonable side. Scorpius was the Malfoy family heir, and his death would make it extremely difficult for the family to continue. Draco would have to remarry and he did not want to sully his late wife- Scorpius and Draca's mother-'s name by taking another wife. And Draco himself had said from the beginning that Draca's predicament was her own. He would not interfere, and so Lucius had volunteered to add his own power to the mix. He had lived his life and would give it willingly to retrieve his much beloved granddaughter.

"We are reaching the point of no return," Harry said to them. He had outfitted each of them with standard Auror battle armor: thick, enchanted leather chest pieces and steel and leather vambraces for deflection of spells and projectiles. They were each outfitted in sleek dragon-hide boots and supplied with gloves from the same material. For the past year they had all learned at least a basic amount of swordplay. Harry, Sirius and Lucius all knew the skill well enough, now, along with a few other forms of self-defense. They were suited with two wands, one being an extra, and each of them had no fewer than three knives on their person at all time. They had studied survival in the wilds and were equipped for functional, if basic, camping.

Harry stood in front of the other two men, his face grace.

"Sirius Black, do you willingly and with full consent go into this mission with me, Harry Potter, as your commander?" Harry asked. Sirius' bright blue eyes were swimming with tears.

"I would go with you into the very jaws of hell to retrieve my son," Sirius replied. Harry nodded sharply, before asking the question to Lucius. The tall blond regarded him carefully.

"Long have I been under the command of another. I have found it chaffing and intolerable," Lucius said sharply. Harry's brilliant green eyes locked with his, and Lucius could see the power of the other wizard swirling in the emerald depths. "But for the safe return of my granddaughter I would follow you anywhere you commanded," he finished.

"All right, men. Each of us will be tethered to the other in a chain. I will spin the Time Turner and if everything goes well we will not be separated. If we are, though, we use our skills and our wands to find each other as quickly as possible. We have all removed our Tracer Blocks and should be able to find each other with relative ease. Are we ready?" he asked. He received a resounding affirmative as his reply. He made sure the connections were secure and then took the Time Turner in his hands, with one of his wrists being tethered to one of Sirius' wrists, the other to Lucius.

He flipped it once.

They all stared at the item in silence, waiting for the moment when it would- ah! The metal suddenly lit up with brilliant light and heat and began to spin furiously on its own, squealing loudly the whole time. It suddenly wrenched itself from Harry's hands, suspended in mid-air. They could feel the pressure beginning to build around the magical artifact.

For such a small item it made a gods-awful sound. Harry wasn't sure if his ears were bleeding or not. Then it was as if there were suddenly a tornado surrounding them, whipping their hair from their faces and biting at their flesh. And where the little artifact had floated, it was as if the air itself had _ripped._ There was a long, jagged hole in the air. It was like a vacuum, drawing air in as it tried to stabilize the terrible pressure.

"This is it! Hold tight!" Harry called, before jumping towards the rift. Sirius was next, followed by Lucius. Their arms felt like they were being ripped from their sockets as the air whirled them around and tried to separate them. The trip seemed to take forever and no time at all.

They landed in an ungainly, undignified lump together, body parts slammed together precariously.

"Oh, Merlin…someone needs to get their knee out of my spleen!"

"Sorry, Lucius, that's me. But I can move my knee if Sirius will kindly get his elbow out of my appendix,"

"Sorry, Harry. Malfoy…what is poking me in the lower back?"

"My wand, Black,"

"Which one?"

"The wooden one!"

"…..I need an adult….."

"Everyone _move!_" And Harry heaved with all his might, managing to shift the writhing pile of bodies apart long enough to say the release spell for their bindings. He stood carefully, dusting off his robe and looking around. They were in a forest of some kind, nondescript and rather plain. They could literally be _anywhere._

"All right, first things first. We need to find water and get a bearing for our surroundings. Let's go," Harry said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his miniature pack, which he had Shrunken down with a spell to make it easier to take with him. Now he returned it to its normal size and put it on his shoulders. "We walk until nightfall,"

The three men began to move silently in the wilderness, their thoughts and hearts hopeful for the first time in many years.

* * *

Oh man! The plot thickens! Now we have _all sorts _of frigging wizards running around. This sounds like a metric shit ton of fun.

Pro-tip: Don't expect them to meet up immediately. It would make a very short story.

Now, I would _love _to hear what you guys think. I can even take constructive criticism. But I will be brutally honest: when my little alert goes off that I've gotten a new review, I get all bubbly inside. It makes me melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. I crave your attention like a jealous little poodle (I've even got the curly hair for it, too!)

…Love me?


	5. Into the Shadows

So chapter five is up and out! Yay! I got more responses from last chapter and each one made me squeeze my phone and squeak with happiness. And since I work in a bookstore people stared at me. Totally worth it. I hope you all continue to show your support in reviews. And if nothing else then favorite or follow. It's even simpler than reviewing to favorite the story, it only has to be done once, and it lets others know that just because this story doesn't have a lot of reviews doesn't mean it's terrible. :3

I'm glad you all seemed to like the inclusion of Harry, Lucius, and Sirius. They don't reappear this chapter, but they definitely will soon. I hope you don't think this is moving too fast. I'm trying to go roughly the same pace (for now) as the book, but since I went straight into their flight from Bree I kinda skipped half the book and it feels like it's moving very fast. Let me know what you think.

* * *

Chapter 5 – Into the Shadows

The Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy not in battle. Aragorn had Andúril and a longbow but no other weapon, and he went forth clad only in rusty green and brown, as a Ranger of the wilderness. Boromir had a long sword, in fashion like Andúril but of less renown, and he also carried a shield and his war-horn.

"Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills," he said, "and then let all the foes of Gondor flee!" Putting it to his lips he blew a blast, and the echoes leapt from rock to rock, and all that heard that voice in Rivendell sprang to their feet.

"Stop that, you prick!" James snapped angrily, slapping his claws to his large ears. Even Legolas had winced at the sharp sound of the horn.

"Slow should you be to sound that horn again, Boromir," Elrond said. "Until you are once more on the borders of your land and in dire need."

"Maybe," Boromir shrugged. "But I always sound it at the setting forth of a journey and even though we travel under the shadows of darkness I will not set forth like a thief in the night," he finished, letting the horn fall against his chest as he adjusted his shield.

"I will burn it," James snarled, shifting under the unfamiliar weight of the modified saddlebags they had outfitted him with.

"And I will crush your skull with my shield if you try," Boromir returned without heat. He and the dragon had been constantly threatening each other for about two weeks now, and it was honestly getting a bit weary.

"Good luck, wanker," James returned evenly, a light growl in his voice.

Gimli the dwarf wore a short shirt of steel-rings and in his belt was a broad-bladed axe. Legolas had a bow and a quiver, and at his belt a long white knife. The younger hobbits wore the swords that they had taken from the barrow; but Frodo took only Sting. His mail-coat, as Bilbo wished, remained hidden. Gandalf bore his staff, but at his side was the elven-sword Glamdring.

Their goodbyes had been said in the great hall by the fire. They stood now waiting for Gandalf, who had not yet left the house. James had eased himself to his belly and was shivering slightly in the morning air. He had been made several vests of fur-lined wool by Tesare, and it was she who was standing with Aras to wave off the dragon. Aras was sitting next to James and patting his head while whispering encouragement to him.

Bill the pony seemed to be the only member of the company not in poor spirits.

"Bill, my lad," Sam said as he stood near the pony and stared off into the wilderness. "You oughtn't to have taken up with us. You could have stayed here and ate the best hay till the new grass comes." But Bill merely swished his tail and stood silently.

It was that moment Elrond came out with Gandalf, and he called the Company to him. "This is my last word," he said in a low voice. "The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," said Gimli.

"Maybe," said Elrond, "but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

"Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart," said Gimli.

"Or break it," said Elrond. "Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!"

"Good ... good luck!" cried Bilbo, stuttering with the cold. "I don't suppose you will be able to keep a diary, Frodo my lad, but I shall expect a full account when you get back. And don't be too long! Farewell, all of you!"

Aras sighed as James finally stood. But James reached into a pouch set into the strap of his satchel and withdrew two small black scales. One he pressed into Aras' hand, and the other he handed to Tesare. She kissed his nose.

"The blessings of Eru be with you, and may Elbereth light your way with the stars," she said, clutching the scale to her chest. James nosed her shoulder and bowed to Aras. He then went to Elrond as the others began filing down the walkway. He reached into the pocket again and withdrew three more scales.

"If I don't return… These are for you…and for the twins," James said, placing them in his hands. Elrond smiled sadly.

"I cannot see whether this quest fails or succeeds. But I feel in my heart that we will see each other again. Keep them safe, Naurlam," he told him, running his hand over the dragon's head.

"I'm a good defender," James returned almost shyly. Elrond's fingers moved over the long, white scar across James' face.

"I know," Elrond said at last, his soft grey eyes sparkling with unshed tears. James placed his head over Elrond's shoulder and gave him a swift one-armed hug before moving back.

"I forgave you…long ago," he said as he turned.

"I know," the elf repeated. "Go now and be with them,"

And James moved more swiftly, plodding up to the rear of the line and looking towards Bill. The pony eyed him warily before turning back to stare ahead.

"Well fuck you, then," the dragon mumbled moodily.

* * *

Boromir lay huddled under his blanket, trying to keep the wind off of him so that he could catch some sleep before his watch. He could see Gandalf sitting on the low branch of a tree a few feet from the campsite, his pipe glowing intermittently in the darkness. The hobbits were all asleep in a little bundle, pressed closely together for warmth. He almost envied them the free contact they gave one another. Why just yesterday poor Pippin had tripped and cut his hand upon a rock when he caught himself. The dragon had done a surprising job patching up the bloodied palm, but the young hobbit had looked rather dejected until the slightly older Merry had given him a swift kiss across the back of his hand when he thought no one was looking. Boromir had found it endearing. Thinking about what a peaceful place the Shire must be, he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed of death and destruction. He dreamed of a tall figure in horrifying armor sitting on the black marble throne of Gondor and smiting his father with a great black sword. He dreamed of Faramir being tortured by orcs. He dreamed of his mother as she was before she had started to fade like a bloom in the winter.

He woke with a start, wondering what had dragged him out of sleep. Then he realized, with his heartbeat racing, that something was pressed against his back. Without moving he glanced at the rest of the camp. Gandalf still sat in his tree but was now whittling at some piece of wood with a small folding knife. Aragorn was across the camp from him. Gimli was snoring away somewhere behind him. He could not see Legolas in his direct line of sight. He rolled over and gave a shout of surprise when he came face-to-face with the black dragon.

The camp came to life immediately. Aragorn bounded from his bedroll with Andúril in his hand. He heard Gimli clamor to his feet and the light steps of Legolas. The dragon's gold eyes opened and he looked at Boromir in confusion.

"Why are you here?" James asked sleepily, lifting his head.

"You scaly bastard! I woke up to find you damn near in _my _bedroll!" Boromir said, only less than hysterical. James sneered at him.

"My apologies, then. It wasn't because of…your good looks….trust me," he snapped, shifting away from Boromir.

The Man looked at the others. Aragorn looked like he was trying to hide mirth. Gimli was grumbling as he fell heavily back onto his own bedroll and Gandalf looked ready to fry them all with lightning. He heard the soft voice of Legolas murmur something before going back to his own sleep. The hobbits were blinking sleepily at them one moment and then asleep again the next.

It would have been almost forgivable if the same thing hadn't happened four times in the next two weeks. Boromir would awake to find the dragon asleep against his back. Once, the beast had burrowed so thoroughly underneath him that he was almost sleeping between the dragon's wings. Nearly mad with exhaustion and anger, Boromir made his sleeping place on a rock off of the ground, still hidden from view but well above the others. Aragorn had rolled his eyes at him and the Elf had sighed before going on Watch. Gimli ignored them all in favor of sleep.

He awoke with the dragon draped completely _over him,_ snoring softly with his legs hanging off the rock. He gave an angry grunt and shoved the dragon as hard as he could. James fell off of the rock with a loud yelp and bounded forward several steps in sleepy confusion. He tripped over Gimli and landed on top of Gandalf. The wizard shot to his feet with shocking spryness and James felt the force of Gandalf's staff strike his backside. He yelped again and rolled over, slapping Sam to the ground with his wing.

"That was on purpose, you hideous monster!" Boromir said when James found his feet.

"Don't flatter yourself, worm! Total accident!"

"I'm five feet off the ground!" Boromir said, clutching at his blanket angrily. James gave him a one finger salute and then crawled back to his blankets. His face would have been flushed with mortification could they see past his black scales.

James huffed and threw himself on the ground, wrapping up in his thick woolen blanket.

* * *

And then Sam got sick. They were a fortnight into the journey and the weather had just changed to something a little more bearable when they woke to find Sam shivering with fever. Aragorn brewed a tincture of Athelas and made him drink it, but his body was weak and achy.

"Put on my back," James suggested. Sam groaned.

"Curse the fates," he mumbled hoarsely. "I do not wish to ride when Master Frodo must walk on," Sam said, before sneezing violently.

"Sam, my friend, I had to ride atop the dragon when I was sick with the Black Rider's wound. You are not well and you should recover. If it will make you feel better I will walk alongside the dragon," Frodo said gently. Sam sniffled miserably.

"Very well, then," he said softly. Aragorn wrapped Sam in his bed blanket and set him astride James' back. Sam pulled up the blanket against James' neck and laid his head forward. James could feel the high body temperature of the Hobbit. He was not overly fond of Sam, but nevertheless he carried the faithful Halfling along. He was hardly any greater a burden.

When they stopped for a break, Sam was nestled down into his blankets to recline against a rock. Once more Aragorn plied him with the Athelas mixture. Sam's dislike for the dragon lessened a bit when the beast procured a small crock of honey and spared a splash for the otherwise strongly herbal mixture. Aragorn stared at Naurlam as he replaced the crock of honey in his bag.

"How has that not broken?" he asked curiously. James shrugged his shoulder.

"Magic," he said. Aragorn seemed strangely okay with that answer.

They all watched as Boromir began to teach Merry and Pippin how to wield their blades. The two were eager pupils if highly unskilled.

"Why don't you make a game of it, Boromir?" Aragorn suggested.

"Very well, my Hobbit friends. We shall play a game my brother and I used to be very fond of when we were smaller. We shall play Castle Guard. I believe I shall be the Guard of the Castle, and you can be roving ruffians, coming to pillage the great palace. Sound all right?" The Hobbits did not seem to mind being cast as the bandits, for they agreed heartily.

Boromir showed them the basics and moved slowly. Every so often he would make a harder tap against their blades and state that they would have been disarmed. During one such move his aim was too low and Pippin moved his blade up, catching a nick against his hand.

"Ah!" The Hobbit winced.

"Sorry!" Boromir said. Pippin recovered quickly enough and kicked Boromir in the shin. "Argh!" The man cried.

"Get him!" Merry cried. They both tackled Boromir to the ground. "Take his money!" he added, still playing their role game. Boromir wrestled with the two, laughing.

"I'm but a poor guard! I haven't any money!" he exclaimed. The two hobbits paused and looked at each other.

"Take his clothes! We'll storm the tower!" Pippin said, and they attacked Boromir with renewed vigor.

"Strangely well thought out," Gimli said from his perch nearby. Aragorn grinned, setting his pipe aside to help his fellow Man. "You may have to be on the watch for a Hobbit siege on the White City someday," he added. Aragorn laughed and placed a hand on each Hobbit's shoulder.

"That's enough, Gentlemen," he said.

"Reinforcements! Kill the lot!" Pippin cried, and they both grabbed one of his legs, pulling him to the ground.

"What's that? It don't look like a cloud," asked Sam in a hoarse whisper. Legolas stepped forward but made no answer, for he was gazing intently at the sky. Flocks of birds flying at great speed were wheeling and circling the land as if they were searching for something; and they were steadily drawing nearer. Aragorn shot into action.

"Lie flat and still!" hissed Aragorn, pulling Sam down into the shade of a holly-bush. The Fellowship scrambled to gather their things, and James put out the fire. Boromir pulled Merry and Pippin to a hiding spot. They hid behind rock outcroppings and under bushes; for a whole regiment of birds had broken away suddenly from the main host, and came, flying low, straight towards the ridge. Sam thought they were a kind of crow of large size. As they passed overhead, they flew in so dense a swarm that their shadow followed them darkly over the ground below. Boromir pressed the two younger Hobbits to the ground, covering them with his body and keeping them low. He held them close for protection and as a comfort to them.

Aragorn did not rise until the birds had flown into the distance, north and west, and the sky was clear again. Then he sprang to his feet and went and woke up Gandalf.

"Regiments of black crows are flying over all the land between the Mountains and the Greyflood," he said, "And they have passed over Hollin. They are not natives here; they are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland." Gandalf frowned sharply.

"Spies of Saruman! The passage South is being watched. We must take the Pass of Caradhras," he said.

"I have also glimpsed many hawks flying high up in the sky. I think we ought to move again this evening. Hollin is no longer wholesome for us: it is being watched," Legolas said softly.

"And in that case so is the Redhorn Gate," said Gandalf. "And how we can get over that without being seen, I cannot imagine. But we will think of that when we must. As for moving as soon as it is dark, I am afraid that you are right," he sighed.

All that day the Company remained in hiding. The dark birds passed over now and again; but as the Sun grew red in the west they disappeared southwards. At dusk the Company set out, and turning now half east they steered their course towards Caradhras, which far away still glowed faintly red in the last light of the setting Sun. One by one white stars sprang forth as the sky faded.

Guided by Aragorn they struck a good path. It looked to Frodo like the remains of an ancient road that had once been broad and well planned from Hollin to the mountain-pass. The Moon, now full, rose over the mountains and cast a pale light in which the shadows of stones were black. Many of them looked to have been worked by hands, though now they lay tumbled and ruinous in a bleak, barren land.

James continued to carry Sam, whose cough and sneezing was lessened, but his fever still persisted. Aragorn would swing back towards where the dragon walked and check the Hobbit's temperature with his fingers. Only once did they stop long enough to get a bit of Athelas mixture into Sam's system. They took it as a much needed break for everyone. Frodo sat near Sam, speaking with the sick hobbit in low, gentle tones. It was clear that Sam did not like the attention and would much rather be lavishing that same attention on Frodo, but Frodo was a loyal master if nothing else. He made sure his servant and friend was comfortable in his sickness.

Legolas kept looking around in the shadows. He did not like this place. Long had the elves of Eregion been gone, their memory lost to the grass and trees. Only the fallen stones remembered the Fair Folk here. They lamented their loss. Though Legolas did not tire as his mortal companions did, he was still glad of the rest. He sat in a patch of cool grass, staring up at the stars as they washed him in their light.

Sam and Frodo were sitting nearby, and he had to smile at the gentle way that Frodo was taking care of the ill Sam. Elves did not get sick and so Legolas could not sympathize with Sam, but he could feel sorry that the hobbit was sick. And he was. It always seemed so pitiful when the mortals were ill.

"Mr. Frodo, this is all very well and good, but I feel just terribly knowing that you're carrying such a terrible burden _and _taking care of poor old Sam. It ain't right!" Sam argued weakly.

"Sam, it would be an even greater burden to know that the faithful friend who has done so very much for me was unattended in his own suffering. This blasted Ring can't make me forget about your loyalty, though it whispers and tries. The Lord of the Shadowland has another thing coming if he thinks he can out-stubborn a Hobbit!" Frodo joked. Sam smiled weakly at his master's humor. He glanced aside to see Legolas watching them. Sam had gotten quite used to the elf by now. It was much easier not to idolize a creature of a specific race so much once you'd slept on the hard ground together. He was now quite proudly able to hold a short conversation with the elf.

A feeling of unease was stirring in Legolas' belly. He placed his hand inconspicuously on the grass, asking the blades if they could tell him anything. There was something here that didn't belong. That was all the grass knew.

"Something here," Legolas looked up to see Naurlam sitting on his haunches next to him, his gleaming golden eyes scanning the stony land. Legolas was looking around as well.

"Aye," Legolas said softly. Legolas' ears pricked at the sound of a soft sneeze. He happened to turn towards Sam at the moment, and noticed the hobbit's eyes were wide with fright.

"That wasn't me," Sam said. The camp was suddenly in action, arming themselves and preparing should there be a conflict. Even the hobbits drew their blades, though they were standing protected behind the Men, Elf, Dragon and Dwarf.

James' nose twitched as the wind blew and he turned towards a thick bush not fifteen feet where he and Legolas had sat. He crept forward, golden eyes glowing in the moonlight.

"Careful, Naurlam," Aragorn said softly. There was a tiny movement in the bush and James shot forward like a striking serpent, disappearing into the foliage. There was a shriek of terror and a yelp. A figure was thrown bodily from the bush, flipping painfully before landing face-first before the Fellowship. James leapt from the bush and grabbed the figure, pulling it to its feet. It appeared to be male.

He was taller than Gimli and gangly in appearance. His skin was a dusty brown color and the moonlight reflected off of sleek black hair, decorated with a few uneven braids. He had large, slightly pointed ears and a thin face. He was wearing rough deerskin clothing and had a pack slung across his back and a short sword at his side. He was gasping under Naurlam's tight grip and they could see white fangs in his mouth. But when he tilted his head slightly it was his bright, yellow eyes that caught their attention. Gimli spat in the dirt.

"Orc!"

* * *

What a twist! How could this possibly be relevant to the story? *Shrugs* Heck if I know, I just write what my muse slaps me in the face with. I'm just kidding I know _exactly _where this is going, and it's gonna be a bumpy ride! Hold on to your butts!

There are a few patches that were adapted straight from the book, because there was little other ways to say it other than how Tolkien wrote it. I believe the only large patch is the Crebain scene. Personally I hated the abruptness of the 'Crebain from Dunland' movie scene, so I used the book scene here. Legolas can go rub his pointy little ears against a tree in this regard. :B

I hope to have some reviews from loyal readers! *Fingers crossed*


	6. Looking Forward, Looking Back

Well, well, well. A rather quick update if I do say so myself. And I do. I absolutely love the responses that this story is getting. When I write I want to do something new. Even if I take a clichéd idea, I want to do something with it that no one has ever done. Screw this 'girl in ME' bit, I threw a frigging _dragon _into the mix. Hellz yea. Also some half-orcs and hinting at Galadriel getting drunk on the water in her mirror (I'm telling you if you haven't read A Dragon's Quest you are missing out. There's some great humor floating around in there.)

Now there's some major, crazy shit going down in this chapter. I mean like…serious fan-hitting shit going down. Our Magical Trio is not here, but there is someone from the past that is that I rather felt uncomfortable writing. I'm not used to that type of scene. *Shrug* I swear I'm going somewhere with it, though.

* * *

Chapter 6 – Looking Forward, Looking Back

"_Orc!"_

"No, no! Please, listen-!" he said, before James shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. There was no telling how long the creature had been in the bush, and how much he had heard. Just moments before, Frodo had been speaking of the Ring. In the wrong hands that information could be deadly.

"You listen, _Orc…_" James snarled. The orc was trembling in James' grasp, a fact that James found odd. He had come across many orcs in his day, and none of them had trembled. Sure a few of them had groveled for their lives, but James had never been too inclined to spare the servants of Sauron. This thing looked different, though. All the orcs he had ever seen were green or grey, or the occasional sickly pale color. This one was a light brown in color, almost like a deep tan.

The hands grasping at his claws were tipped in sharp black nails. He wasn't stooping or bow-legged, either. He was certainly an odd breed of orc.

"How much did you hear?" Legolas asked, keeping the shivering creature in the sight of one of his arrows. Yellow eyes turned on him, the black pupil all but constricted to a pinprick with fear.

"I didn't-! I didn't hear!" he exclaimed, his voice finally breaking. Tears flooded his face as he seemed to fall apart in James' grasp.

"Liar!" James hissed and his grip on the front of him tightened so much that his claws pierced the flesh, making him keen with pain and fear.

"You had best talk quickly, for your next words may be your last," Aragorn said grimly, the silver-glow of Andúril leveling at the orc's nose. His yellow eyes focused on the glowing tip. James released the tight grip slightly, and the creature began to speak.

"You gotta- you gotta believe me! I d-didn't mean to h-hear nothing! I was h-hiding!" he stuttered. Andúril's tip lowered to the hollow of his throat, and all of the blood from the orc's face drained, leaving him a sickly color. "Not f-from y-you!"

"Where are the others?" James asked, resting the tip of a shiny claw on the jawline of the orc. The implication was clear: as sharp as the sword was, James' claws were just as deadly.

"I'm th-the only one-," he started, and felt James' claw dig painfully into his neck.

"Orcs don't travel alone! Where are the others?" James snapped, the smell of smoke surrounding the other creature as the breath got steadily hotter.

"M'not an orc!" he spat fearfully.

"Not an orc? What are you, then? A bird?" Gimli asked. "You're not a dwarf!"

"Nor a Man," Boromir supplied.

"Nor a Hobbit!" Piped Sam.

"Nor Elf," Said Legolas.

"Or dragon," James supplied. All eyes were on him. "Everyone else said it…" he replied defensively.

Something terrible came to Pippin's mind. He'd seen pictures of orcs and illustrations in the libraries. He had studied them. This…creature…was like no orc he had ever seen. He was trembling and crying like a youngling, and really only looked half-grown. He looked like…oh _stars._

"He's just a _child!_" Merry suddenly exclaimed, voicing Pippin's thoughts.

"Even a warg was a cub once!" Gimli said gruffly. James let go of the orc in surprise.

"Strider, _please!_" Merry said, bursting through the protective men to push Aragorn's blade away. "Look at him! I mean really _look _at him!"

They did. He was gangly and thin, his face stretched tautly over his skull from too little food. His whole body shook violently as he stared at them and he was crying pitifully, sniffling and holding the place where James' claws had dug into his skin. He was _terrified._ Merry turned to him, taking hold of his shaking hand and patting it gently.

"They seem rather frightening, lad, but they're all good at heart. They're only being protective! What's your name?" Merry asked gently. The orcling fell to his knees in front of Merry, scooting as close to the hobbit as he could for the comfort his presence provided.

"M-my modor c-called me Sceadu. It means 'Shadow,'" he sniffled. Merry patted his hand gently and pressed a kiss to his brow.

"See now, fellows? How much easier that was? Now, my dear Shadow, I need to know how much of our talking you heard…" Merry said. Sceadu looked at the grim faces around him, and then into the warm face of the hobbit. He had never seen such a creature before. At first he had thought them children, but now that he was close he realized that they were just like Little Men. They were round and had jolly faces, save for the one who had spoken about a Ring. His face looked solemn and drawn.

"I heard the dark-haired Little Man speak of…of a Ring…" he said. Gimli gave a shout, causing Sceadu to flinch.

"He knows too much, then! We should just kill him and be done with it!" he said. Aragorn pursed his lips and stared down at the orcling.

"What are you? You are like no orc I've ever seen," he said. Sceadu gulped.

"I'm not Orc. I'm Uruk. And I'm only Half…" he said.

"Uruk? I've only heard of the Black Uruks from Mordor," Gandalf said, still holding Glamdring in one hand and his staff in the other. Sceadu shook his head.

"My father was not of Mordor. He was one of the Fighting Uruk of Isengard," he said, his voice much calmer as Merry continued to stroke his hand. There was murmuring among them.

"Saruman's treachery is indeed great if he is recruiting the aid of Orcs," Gandalf said gruffly. Sceadu shook his head again.

"Not recruiting. The Uruk-hai are his own creation. Tall and broad like Men, they are, and rightly so: their blood is mixed with that of Men to make them big and resistant to the sun," Sceadu said. Horror was etched on their faces. Orcs that did not fear the sun? Eru be with them all! "'Least that's what my modor told me," he added. "'Fore she died."

"Did you kill her?" Boromir asked sharply. Sceadu looked up in horror, his mouth open against the accusation.

"Never! I never hurt anybody! 'Specially not modor! She was…the only one…who didn't hate me," his face crumpled and he began to cry again. Merry pulled his face to him, stroking the sleek black hair gingerly. Boromir found himself on the receiving end of a rather nasty glare. The hobbits may look cute and cuddly, but he would be damned if they weren't ferocious little things when the situation called for it! Were glares alone enough to win a war, Merry could flatten the hosts of Mordor with his face at that moment.

"That was extremely unkind, Boromir," Merry said. "I believe him," he added, looking at Aragorn and Gandalf.

"I don't!" Gimli said. "I think we ought to just separate his head from his shoulders and let the birds of Saruman feast on the offspring of one of his little inventions!" he snapped. Sceadu wrapped his arms around Merry, shuddering in terror.

"Stop it! Stop it all of you! We won't be killing any children 'round here!" Merry said, one arm around the lad's head and the other going to the handle of his blade, which he had sheathed when he discovered the orc was but a child.

"Mister Brandybuck, I do not believe you realize the gravity of the situation. He cannot be allowed to leave us with the knowledge he possesses," Gandalf said.

"You'll have to strike me down too if you wish to take his life," Merry returned, his chin going up. Pippin pushed through the Men, going to stand with his cousin.

"And I won't let Merry be harmed by no Man, or Dwarf, or Elf, or W-Wizard. Or even Dragon!" Pippin said, standing on the other side of Sceadu. Merry wasn't done holding his own, though.

"Tell me what we are fighting for! What _exactly _makes us hate the Orcs as we do? Isn't it that they kill mindlessly? We fight them because they cannot be at peace! Then what makes us any better if we go around killing children? The lad did not provoke us, nor has he done anything to defend himself," Merry said passionately.

"He has not moved against us only because we are stronger! Were the roles reversed he would slay us all!" Legolas provided, his bow still aimed at the Orc…Uruk…whatever it was.

"He cannot be allowed free with what he has heard," Gandalf said grimly. "And taking him with us is an unnecessary burden. It would be more merciful to kill him." And Gandalf was loathe to say it. Merry was right. What made them different from the Orcs if they went about slaughtering children? But this wasn't an easy situation to be in. This little…Uruk could doom them all if he breathed a word to the wrong person.

"Please don't kill me!" Sceadu pulled away from Merry and sprawled face-down in front of the rest of the Fellowship. "I don't kn-know where you are going…but I can help! Please! I am very strong and fast and I will do _anything._ Just don't kill me..." he pleaded. Aragorn's sword wavered when faced with the pitiful pleading.

"What does the Ri- er…leader of our quest feel that we should do?" Aragorn asked, turning to look at Frodo. Frodo's face was pale and he looked up at Aragorn like a deer caught in lantern light.

"I do not know…" Frodo said.

"A quick slice with my axe and it won't be a problem anymore! Hell, a nice arrow to the neck from the elf would solve our problems as well!" Gimli grunted.

"Have mercy…have mercy on me…I am lost and alone…I can help…I will not be a burden…" Sceadu was begging.

"I could not bear it if the death of a child was on my command. If you insist on giving me the choice, then I say we take him with us," Frodo said swiftly, turning away from them and striding away several feet.

"Oh thank you! Thank you, thank you! You won't regret this! I swear!" Sceadu bubbled. Merry laughed and leaned down to grab his hand.

"Up you go, my lad! You are naught but skin and bones! Surely we can find a few scraps of food for you?" he said, looking at Aragorn questioningly. Aragorn's face was forbidding as he sheathed Andúril.

"Our supplies were supposed to last two Men, an Elf, a Dragon, a Wizard, and four Hobbits for as long as we could make them. We never planned to also feed a young Orcling-,"

"Uruk! I'm an Uruk! Er…half, at least," Sceadu said, his brown cheeks flushing when Aragorn looked at him sharply. The others began slowly putting away their weapons.

"I say this is a mistake," Gimli muttered. "And if he makes any wrong move I'll remedy this situation myself," he added, giving the Uruk a heated glare. Sceadu gulped, but Merry put himself between the boy and the Dwarf.

"I will see to him, Master Gimli, and I will make sure he is as meek as a lamb and cheerful as a…as a…well, cheerful as a Hobbit!" Merry said, laughing as he looked back up at Sceadu. The lad gave him a watery smile. "Now tell me, friend Shadow, how old you are?" he asked.

"I'm twelve summers, Master," he said. Merry flushed.

"I ain't nobody's Master. Now don't start going on like Sam about how you'll be trying to please your Master. We hear enough of his groveling as it is!" Merry said. Pippin snickered.

"I don't grovel!" Sam growled. "I merely try to make sure Mr. Frodo is as comfortable as possible on this miserable journey! And now we have to worry about an orc-pup murdering us as we sleep!" Sam replied.

"I've never murdered anybody and I never will!" Sceadu replied hotly. Boromir tilted his head slightly.

"And what blood has the blade at your side tasted?" he asked innocuously. Sceadu looked down at the hilt of his short sword.

"No blood has it shed. My modor was teaching me to use it before she fell ill," he said, resting a small hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Being taught sword play by a woman? It's probably not because of lack of want you have never killed," Boromir said softly, a darkly amused expression on his face. Sceadu seemed to prickle with anger.

"My modor was a shield-maiden of Rohan! You'd do well to hold your tongue against her!" he said. Boromir frowned.

"Rohan has ever been loyally at Gondor's side. A shield-maid of the Rohirrim would never take up with an orc willingly," Boromir stated. Sceadu deflated.

"She didn't. My modor was the spoils of an attack of a village of Rohan. She escaped her captors and fled to the safety of a neighboring village. When she discovered she was expecting, the villagers told her to rid herself of me…but she would not. She believed my life was sacred and she kept me. Some days I wish she hadn't bothered," he was staring firmly at the ground, scuffing about a few rocks with his worn, dirty boots.

"Would have saved us a great deal of trouble," Boromir replied honestly, before sheathing his own sword and turning away. "We ought to move on before we lose the moonlight and those blasted birds can see us again." He lifted his pack and swung it onto his shoulder.

James moved past the Uruk, turning to look him in the face. He reached out with one claw and grabbed Sceadu's left hand. He pressed something into his palm and then walked away. Sceadu watched the dragon leave, his eyes wide with fright. What manner of people were these that they had a _dragon _loyal to them? He had best be on his finest behavior.

He opened his palm to see a wafer of way-bread and a strip of chewy, dried fruit mixture. He looked up at the retreating dragon in wonder.

"He's got a loud bark, and definitely a sharp bite, but Sir Dragon also has a very big heart," Merry said as he went to gather his own pack.

What a day!

* * *

Nothing further happened that night. The next morning dawned even brighter than before. But the air was chill again; already the wind was turning back towards the east. For two more nights they marched on, climbing steadily but ever more slowly as their road wound up into the hills, and the mountains towered up, nearer and nearer. On the third morning Caradhras rose before them, a mighty peak, tipped with snow like silver, but with sheer naked sides, dull red as if stained with blood.

"That's an awful big mountain!" Sceadu murmured as he looked at it.

"Quite intimidating, and no mistake!" Pippin agreed.

"Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name," Said Gimli, his beetle-black eyes glaring at the half-Uruk, "Long before even rumors of Sauron were heard in these lands."

"Who is Sauron?" Sceadu asked. All footsteps stopped and every head turned towards him in disbelief. His brown face flushed at the sudden attention. "Did…I say something wrong?" he asked, his voice a bit squeaky with nervousness.

"You do not know the name of the Dark Lord?" Boromir asked. Sceadu shuffled at the stones under his feet and shook his head. "The Lord of Mordor?" he tried again.

"My modor didn't talk a lot about things outside the village. I think…I think she was scared of everything outside. If she knew of this Dark Lord and Mordor she didn't tell me…" he finished.

"Probably tried to prevent you from signing up for the Black Army!" Gimli muttered.

"He's bad news, my lad, terribly bad news. Not someone you'd invite over for tea and biscuits at all! Although from what I've heard he might be more likely to invite himself over!" Merry said. Gandalf shook his head at the description from the Hobbit.

"Calling the Dark Lord bad news is rather like saying Caradhras is cold. It doesn't quite cover it and will make people underestimate the deadliness. And now we must continue, and we would do well not to mention any more Dark Lords or their shadowy lands," Gandalf said as he began to walk forward again.

Merry gave Sceadu a reassuring pat on his hand.

"Don't mind them. I've discovered I'm quite ignorant of many things outside of the Shire. Why don't you tell me about your mother?" He asked cheerfully. Sceadu's face lit up with innocent glee as he began to describe his mother to them.

* * *

"Oh, _fuck this,_" James snapped loudly, tucking his wings firmly under his cloak as the snow began to fall. He quickly accessed his pack and pulled out the fur-lined leather slippers for his front and back paws. Then he cast water-proofing spells and warming charms on both of them. "I fucking _hate _snow," he said, shivering despite his precautions.

"I barely feel the cold!" Sceadu exclaimed happily, sticking out his tongue to catch flakes. Pippin laughed at the childish antics and then joined him. They continued to catch flakes until the snow began falling too hard to tilt up one's face.

_Oh my god this mountain is going to kill me!_ James thought desperately. Despite his coverings and most fervent spells, his feet were numb with cold. Legolas, the frigging nancy elf that he was, was skipping across the snow like some gay little snow-bird. Gimli's thick leather tunic and coat were protecting him from a good amount of the snow. Boromir had that luxurious Gondorian cloak of fur-lined wool wrapped around him. Aragorn was wrapped firmly in his own woolen cloak and Gandalf was bent to the wind with his head down, using the brim of his hat to protect his eyes as he led them up the mountain. The only ones who seemed to mind the cold were the poor hobbits. They were too small to generate enough of their own warmth. The little Uruk, while not dancing across the snow, had pulled out a woolen cloak from his pack and was making do with only that.

James opened his mouth and tried to cough a cloud of fire. Dry sparks flew from his mouth. Damn it! His body temperature was too low! It seemed like such a paradox that a fire-breathing lizard was cold-blooded, but such was the nature of his body. And when his temperature fell too low, he could not spit flames. This was not going well.

_Use my power._ The thought flitted across his mind so silently that he almost didn't even realize that he had heard it at all. He looked up to see Frodo struggling against the high banks of snow.

_Fuck off, Ring. I've already told you!_ James snapped inside his head.

_Master will lend thee my power so that Caradhras the Cruel lies down before thy will. Take me up upon thy hand and my strength will be thine to command. _Came the voice again.

_Shut your ungodly, lopsided mouth you piece of cheap costume jewelry! I am not a fragile reed to bend to the wind of your will! I will become a dragon popsicle before I let myself be thrust under the will of another! _He was growling aloud now.

_So be it. I only hope all of thy companions are as stalwart as thee._ And then the voice was gone. James shook his head violently to dislodge a few flakes and shake free the presence of the Ring in his head.

Frodo slipped against the snow suddenly, yelping as he fell backwards into a drift.

"Frodo!" Aragorn exclaimed in concern. He helped the frazzled Hobbit to his feet. Frodo laid his hand against his chest instinctively, and gave a gasp of concern. He looked around desperately and saw the Ring on its large chain, sitting upon the snow pretty-as-you-please.

It was Boromir who was closest, and he bent over to pick up the chain, dangling it on one finger by the chain. His head tilted slightly as if he were listening.

"It is a strange fate we should suffer so much fear and doubt…over so small a thing. Such a little thing," he murmured.

"Boromir…" Aragorn said sternly. Boromir's eyes lingered on the Ring for a few more breathless seconds, before he walked slowly down the slope to the Ranger and the Hobbit. Aragorn's hand was resting on the hilt of Andúril. He did not think he would need it against Boromir, but he would not risk the safety of this mission for anyone.

"As you wish. I truly meant no harm by my curious inspection. I only find it fascinating that so small a trinket has bound the lives of so many and caused such strife upon our lands," he said, holding out the Ring. Frodo snatched it from his hand, replacing it around his neck and looking rather tortured for a few seconds.

"And much more strife upon us if it continues to exist," Aragorn said to the man of Gondor. Boromir's gaze left Frodo and he looked at Aragorn.

"I wish only peace for my people. I wish only to see a time when husbands and sons and brothers are not buried by the scores. I wish only to see a time when children may play in the streets without worrying about a siege on the city. I wish only to see a time when we can look to the East and not see the glowing remnants of the Master of Mordor as his foul army trickles ever closer, infecting the land and spreading his festering presence around Gondor until it falls into the very bowels of Udûn to be swallowed up by fire and ice!" Boromir said heatedly. "And while my father works himself to the bone to keep the borders safe from that threat we have a man who claims that he has the right to Kingship, who could bring a very real hope to the hearts of his people, traipsing around out in the wilderness dancing with Elves under the moonlight!"

Boromir did not wait for Aragorn to reply, but he turned in a swirl of his cloak and continued on. Aragorn swallowed hard.

"Strider…" Frodo said weakly. Aragorn rested his hand on Frodo's head.

"This journey weighs on us all, my friend. Boromir's heart is heavy with many burdens. We will be well, I think, if we can get off of this mountain in one piece," he said softly. Frodo swallowed.

"If…if…if," he sighed.

* * *

Dark baleful eyes stared into a globe. A picture played within its depths like looking through a distorted window. He watched the sordid group struggle against the snow and the cold, and a smile as chilling as the mountain curled against his lips underneath his mustache. He reached up a bony hand to stroke his beard thoughtfully.

"So, Gandalf, you try to lead them over Caradhras. And if that fails, where then will you go?" he asked, staring at the leader of the group as he bent and used a staff to break the snow in a path. He let out a short barking laugh when he noticed the black beast at the rear of their party, struggling the hardest of all of them while the rest blundered on, ignorant of the overgrown lizard's turmoil.

He reached over and rang a silver bell at his side, calling for his favorite servant. He had a feeling she would want to see this. He only had to wait a few moments before the soft sound of her steps reached his ears. She entered the room with her slender staff tapping softly against the black marble floor.

She was tall and thin, wearing patched and ragged green robes over a green cotton dress. Her long blond hair was thin and streaked liberally with white in many places. She wore thin manacles around her wrists that bound what power she had to her Master, making her incapable of rebellion or self-defense.

Her delicately pointed ears poked through the thin strands of hair and twitched slightly as she walked, and she listened for signs of trouble and tried to get a feel for the reason for her summoning. Her grey eyes were dulled with long suffering and pain.

But the most striking feature on her face was her mouth. Her master had long told her that her mouth would get her in trouble. And many times it had. Far too many times had she felt a switch across her backside or a leather strap against her shoulders. But when Saruman's patience and mercy had grown short, he had finally put an end to the problem once and for all.

Her lips were stitched firmly shut, allowing her very little room to open her mouth. She ate a liquid diet through a reed straw, lending to her thin frame and relatively poor health. For nearly a decade her survival was in herbal potions and strengthening brews. That and a little thing called sheer damned stubbornness. She was sure that her master just wanted her to lie down and die, but she would not give him the satisfaction. Her Malfoy obstinacy was, at this time, her greatest survival tool.

Many times had she tried to cut the stitches herself, but there was magic woven into the thread that made it as permanent as Saruman wished it. It did not rot away or fray or give way to knives. She had a few tiny scars around the stitching from where she had tried several times to free herself.

"Come, Ithilrhas. I wish for you to see something. I believe you will recognize it," Saruman said harshly. She approached with trepidation, seeing that the Palantír was active. He was always so volatile during and after his sessions with the Seeing Stone. She looked into the stone, unable to see what he was trying to make her-

She inhaled sharply through her nose.

"Yes, I know you see him. It is your dragon friend, yes?" he asked. She looked at him, her grey eyes wild with emotion. "Now, now, don't try to speak all at once!" he laughed austerely at her. Her face flushed with shame and she looked away from the Stone. "It is just as well that you are here. I grow tired of your presence. There is someone I wish for you to meet," he said.

From behind his throne-like seat a shadowy figure emerged, dressed in black furs and slinking as smoothly as oil. His face was pale and his hair was slicked with some kind of hair product, making it appear smooth and greasy.

"This is Gríma, son of Gálmód, and advisor to Théoden King of Rohan. He has been faithful to the White Hand and I have offered you as a gift. You are worthless now to me, but Gríma finds you fascinating," Saruman said.

Gríma reached forward and touched her face. To her credit she did not flinch, but the light in her eyes changed. Though she was silenced her gaze became like flashing steel, glaring at the man. He gave her a chilling smile.

"I am a fair man. If you please me well I have been given the instructions on how to remove the stitching against your lips. Fail in your service to me, and I have also been given the instructions to let your eyes join your lips, forever closed," he said. His voice was soft and gentle, but full of dark promise. Ithilrhas whimpered slightly and saw Gríma shiver appreciatively.

"Come now, fair Lady Wizard. Long has it been since you have laid those steely eyes on the City of Edoras. You are mine now, and I treat my belongings how they deserve to be treated," he added, reaching out and grasping one of her hands. His hand was warm, but it was not comforting. He led her away from the black throne of Orthanc, murmuring soft words of promise to her. She turned one last time at the door, her grey eyes landing on the Palantír as a final image flashed against the dark surface. She saw the gleaming golden eyes staring out in horror as Saruman began to chant in another language, bringing the wrath of Caradhras upon them. Gríma pulled insistently on her hand, drawing her attention back.

"Eyes to me, sweetling. You must look ahead, to your future. You'll never get those stitches out if you keep looking back."

* * *

I do _not _like Gríma or Saruman right now. They both give me the heebie-jeebies. *Heebie-jeebies dance*

Ah, little Sceadu. He's such a darling. I love him so. From what I have gathered the Rohirric language is based on Old English. Sceadu really means 'Shadow' in Old English, and the word 'modor' that he keeps saying is just 'mother' in OE. Hope that clears that up.

Now…I hope little Half-Uruk kiddies running around gets me a few reviews. That is _not _common. I've read a few fanfics in my day and few and far between are the ones that go into deep thought about what the Orcs and Uruks were capable of. They are featured quite nicely in here I do believe. This is the beginning of a beautiful adventure. :D

…review? Pwease? At _least_ favorite or follow! Those make me happy too!


	7. Caves and Mountains

Disappointment no Jutsu... I pour out my imagination and get all crazy and shit and there's not much reply. Well I suppose I can be cheerful in the fact that I did have several favorites and follows. \0/ Yay! Those are much, much appreciated as well. I find that even if a story has low reviews, if it has a good amount of favorites and/or follows then I'll usually read it. It usually means that a story is pretty good.

Well, my half-Uruk twelve-year-old didn't get as much recognition as I'd hoped. :( Ah well. Maybe this chapter will cheer everyone up. There's a familiar (or four) face(s) here and I think you'll like it(them). So sit back and enjoy the ride! (And then review. Yea. Do that.)

* * *

Chapter 7 – Caves and Mountains

"So what you're saying is we're lost."

Sirius had stopped walking and had his arms crossed over his chest. His wavy black hair was tangled and matted with twigs and leaves. His face was streaked with dirt and he was looking rather frazzled on the whole.

Harry looked little better. His black hair stuck out as one who had been messing with electricity. His face was also smudged with dirt and he had a large cut across his face where a branch had whipped back and sliced the skin easily.

"No, I'm just saying that I don't know where we are," Harry said stubbornly. "All of my _Point Me_ spells are fizzing out like a fizzing whizbee and my compass exploded in my hand. Compasses don't explode, Sirius. They just don't," He finished with exasperation in his voice.

Hours upon hours they had walked in this gods-awful place. The air was thick and humid and made their clothes stick to them uncomfortably. Harry had to bite back a grin when he heard Sirius grumbling about his shorts again. _Apparently _they kept getting…er…wedged.

And then there was _Malfoy._ There was something different about him this last week that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on. The first was a strange new spryness to him. Lucius Malfoy was not an old wizard, and he was still rather limber in terms of his age, but now he seemed to move like a man a fraction of his age. And no matter what happened to the weather, or what they traipsed through, no dirt seemed to want to stick to him. His clothes were a bit dusty and his boots were caked across the bottom with mud, but other than that he seemed abso-fucking-lutely _immaculate._ Not to mention that even in the hottest, most humid weather he kept his long blond hair down.

"You sick son-of-a-bitch," Sirius said to Lucius suddenly. Lucius paused in confusion. "I hate you. I hate you so much. I would trade your soul for a shower. Hell, I would trade your soul for an ice-cream sandwich," he continued. "The rest of us are literally _dripping _with sweat and Harry's hair looks like a poodle lost a fight with a lawnmower. But _you…_ You look like only a little less than the freshly laundered, dandy, tulip smelling bastard I know you are. Now _what the fuck _is your secret?" Sirius snapped.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Black. You always look like a disheveled mongrel," Lucius stated haughtily.

"I will stab you in the eye with a blunt spoon," Sirius said, his voice monotone.

"I will rip out your entrails and use them to strangle you to death," Lucius replied casually.

"Boys…" Harry said suddenly.

"I will yank out every single strand of hair on your head, braid it into a rope, and then use it to lynch you."

"I will rip off your fingernails, transfigure them into a knife and slowly peel your skin off like a banana."

"_Boys._" Harry said a little more insistently.

"Malfoy, I've always thought you were a load your mother should have swallowed,"

"Well at least my mother didn't swallow half her year at Hogwarts!"

"No, she preferred blowing the Minister of Magic to keep her son out of trouble,"

"Must be terrible to have a mother who cared whether or not her son went to prison,"

"How about the next Dementor we meet makes up for all the kisses your dick-mouthed mother didn't give you?"

"Goddammit, both of you _shut up!_" Harry snapped. The two looked at Harry. His face was flushed with embarrassment and he looked rather agitated. "We have company," he snapped, pointing to a place behind the two.

They turned and saw two men standing between two trees. They were tall and slender with light, gauzy blue robes. They both had neatly trimmed white beards and were wearing large brimmed straw hats over neatly braided white hair. The man on the left had bright green eyes and dark eyebrows, with two long scars running across his face and down into his beard. The man on the right had a patch across one eye, the skin around it looking scarred and mangled. His good eye was a warm brown color.

Both carried tall staves.

"I'd rather think it's time they noticed us, Al," The one-eyed man said.

"Aye, it took them long enough. We could have killed the two fourteen times before they even noticed they weren't alone, Pal," the green-eyed one replied.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, his wand slipping into his hand. He saw the green-eyed man's eyes flicker with amusement.

"We are the watchers of this forest. We've actually been waiting for you. It took you long enough to show," he said. Harry narrowed his eyes at them.

"And how did you know we were coming?" he asked, magic crackling around the tip of his wand.

"Oh my! This one is as much a treat as Blue Eyes said he would be! Look at him, sparkling like one of Olórin's fireworks! It's all rather cute…like watching a child try to pick up his father's sword," The one-eyed man said. The other snickered.

"I believe they're toying with us," Lucius purred dangerously, his own wand in his hand. Sirius merely stood behind them, a dangerous grin on his face as he regarded the two strangers.

"Let us introduce ourselves. We are the watchers of this forest, as we said. We knew you were coming because of a prophesy-,"

"Merlin's fluffy white beard! Goddamn _prophesies!_" Harry snapped, his eyes flaring brilliantly with magic.

"-Which was told to us long ago. I am Alatar, and this one-eyed bastard is Pollando, and we are the Blue Wizards. We've been traveling with someone you may know, waiting on your arrival. I believe you know him as Orion," he said.

"What?" Sirius asked, his voice deadly calm. "Where is my son?"

"If you lads would just follow us, we'll take you to him," Pollando, the one-eyed man, said, beckoning for them to come.

"And how do we know this isn't a trap?" Lucius asked sharply.

"Well, my pointy little wizardling, I was bid to tell you that Draca lives as we speak, her destiny taking her to the Horseland of Rohan. She has yet to fulfill her charge," Pollando replied. Lucius felt his knees get weak. Draca was alive!

"Is she well?" he asked. The two looked at each other.

"Well enough to have kept getting on the white wizard's nerve as she was…spirited lass, she is, if rather hard-headed," Alatar supplied. "Curumo has grown cruel and Dark as of late. But now is not the time for stories. She lives, and you will see her again when the time is right. But now we must make haste to the Batcave," he said, balancing his staff in the crook of his elbow and clapping his hands.

"What in the name of hell is the Batcave?" Lucius asked.

"Well, it is our base of operations. But we didn't name it. Eluhîn did. He seemed to think it was hilarious. I recall he laughed for ten minutes about it. Then he kept calling us Alfred and Robin. It was an odd day," Alatar said.

"Eluhîn?" Sirius asked.

"It means 'blue-eyed.' It has been Orion's name here in Arda. We have included him in the Blue class of Wizard. Eluhîn the Blue. But it's all rather unofficial since he didn't want to make a staff," Alatar replied.

Sirius turned to Harry, a desperate look on his face.

"What do you think, Harry? Can we trust them?" he asked. Harry seemed rather heavy-hearted when he turned to the two Blue Wizards.

"You have mentioned Draca and Orion. Have you heard about James Potter? Or Phelan Greyback?" he asked.

"Of James Potter there is no word. But we have long heard rumors of a shape-shifter who commands the form of a wolf. He has helped found a rather unique city in the mountains of which there is no likeness anywhere else," Pollando answered. Harry sighed softly. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. They couldn't all be together in one place. That would be _convenient._

"I do not sense any Darkness in them," Harry said at length. "If we can rejoin one of our lost ones, then let us do so. Perhaps Orion can tell us more about this place," Harry said. "But we won't follow if all of us are not in agreement," he said, looking at Lucius.

Lucius looked between the two and then to the robed strangers. They were odd, to be sure, but like Harry he did not sense any Darkness in them. He did find it odd that they called themselves wizards and carried staves. What kind of backwater place did Draca and the others land themselves in that wizards still used clunky staves? Ah well…he supposed the only way to find anything out would be to follow these men.

"I will follow," Lucius said. Sirius looked relieved.

They followed the two men through the thick forest. They moved quickly for their supposed age, hopping from log to stone and down again on their soft leather shoes. They took several cuts and ducked under thick plants before they finally came to a vine-draped cave entrance. Harry felt a chill go up his spine when he crossed powerful wards. But he supposed since they were being led across then they were accepted by the magic.

The vines were suddenly thrown back and another figure emerged from the cave. Sirius' breath caught in his throat. Orion's black hair had grown long and he was sporting a small patch of hair on his chin and a neatly trimmed mustache. It was rather dashing. His hair was pulled back in a leather tie and a broad straw hat rested on his head to block the sun. He was swathed in gauzy blue robes like the other two and his feet were covered in beaded leather slippers.

"About time you showed up, you furry-faced sons of-," but he paused when he saw the others with them. "Dad." He said simply. Sirius grinned broadly and held out his hands. Orion flew into his father's embrace like he was little again, ripping off his straw hat to throw it aside so it wouldn't get in his way. Sirius was whispering Orion's name like a mantra, tears staining his dirt-smeared face as he inhaled the wild, spicy scent that Orion seemed to have picked up.

"My son, my son!" Sirius finally said, still holding quite firmly onto Orion. "I missed you so,"

"I missed you too, dad. I tried so hard to find everyone, but when I found Alatar and Pollando I knew that it was just best to wait. They knew you would come…I just didn't think it would take so long," Orion said. "You look very good to be a hundred and thirty!" Orion laughed, looking at his father.

"Wait, what? I'm not a hundred and thirty. Orion, you've only been gone ten years, my lad. I'm not quite seventy yet." Sirius said.

"That's not possible. I've been here seventy years." Orion whispered.

"I think we all need to go in and have a long talk. Perhaps a nice shower and a meal for our visitors, Eluhîn?" Alatar said pointedly. They moved into action slowly, both Harry and Lucius shocked by what Orion had said.

Seventy years? If that were the case then James would be ninety-three years old!

* * *

"We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!" Boromir shouted over the wind as they dug themselves out of the avalanche. Gandalf had emerged unharmed from the thick snow, and Legolas had popped up like a little green daisy. Boromir and Aragorn had been able to shoulder their way through the heavy snow and were now in the process of digging out the Hobbits. Frodo and Sam had been clinging together and were brought out as a shuddering clump.

Sceadu broke through the snow with a gasp. Then with a straining groan he pulled Merry from the snow with one hand, and Pippin was pulled out with the other. Sceadu then shook himself like a dog, spraying snow everywhere. Sceadu let go of the Hobbits and reached back into the snow. His lean frame strained under the effort, but with a triumphant roar he pulled Gimli's heavy form from the snow, before promptly toppling over with the dwarf on top of him.

"Great Aulë's hammer, you animal! Stop trying to pull my arm out of its socket!" Gimli sputtered. He looked down at the orcling under him. Sceadu was blinking rapidly as the snow fell on his face, his eyelashes wet with snow and several flakes stuck in his thick, straight eyebrows.

"Sorry, sir dwarf. I was only trying to help," Sceadu said, his voice strained from the weight on top of him.

Gimli struggled to his feet and dusted himself off as best he could.

"The Gap of Rohan will take us too close to Isengard, Boromir. We cannot risk taking the Ring that close!" Aragorn said, his voice raised over the wind.

"If we cannot go _over _the mountain, then let us go _under _it! Let us go through the mines of Moria!" Gimli said. Aragorn looked at Gimli for a moment and then at Gandalf, who looked rather dubious of the decision.

"I cannot make this decision. Let the ringbearer decide," Gandalf said at length. All eyes were on Frodo. He was shivering violently. He could feel Sam shuddering next to him, and Sceadu had Merry and Pippin close to him, trying to wrap the three of them in his child-size cloak. He and Legolas seemed the least affected by the cold.

"We cannot stay here! It will be the death of the Hobbits!" Boromir said loudly as he watched the Uruk's failing attempts to keep the two Hobbits warm.

Frodo frowned, before looking around.

"Where is Dragon?" he asked. Aragorn's head snapped around, looking at them all.

"Who was he standing next to?" he asked sharply.

"The Dragon was at the back with the pony!" Sceadu supplied. Sam seemed to remember his poor friend Bill.

"Dig! Dig! We need the supplies that they both carry!" Gandalf said, turning to the thick snow. Bill was unearthed, unharmed but spooked, and Sam immediately began the task of calming him down as he brushed the snow from the pony's body.

"There's blood here!" Boromir said as he brushed aside some snow. He dug his fingers into the icy snow and began to shift through the bloody ice, before he hit something hard. He pushed a handful of snow aside and found a black claw, still sheathed in the leather and fur half-glove. "Aragorn!" he called.

Everyone began pushing the snow away as quickly as possible. James had been knocked on his side by the falling snow and rocks, and his body was trembling so hard that Aragorn thought he might be having a seizure. They finally unburied his face. James' eyes were closed and he was unconscious, his forked tongue lolling out into the snow around his mouth.

It was his wing that was bleeding. He had the only injury of the avalanche. His wing was badly broken by a boulder, bent at an unnatural angle. The more tender skin beneath his wing was split open and bleeding profusely.

"Pull him out! We have to get him out of the snow!" Aragorn said.

Aragorn grabbed one of James' forelegs, and Legolas grabbed the other. They heaved mightily, dragging the strangely light draconic body out of the freezing slush. Aragorn was surprised at how light the dragon was, but he supposed it made sense. If he were too heavy he would not be able to lift himself in flight. But the break in his wing could make it impossible to do that anyway if they didn't treat it quickly.

"Where are we going?" Aragorn asked, looking to Frodo again. Frodo gave a shuddering sigh.

"We will go through the mines," he said, his voice barely audible over the wind.

"We are weary from digging ourselves from this cursed avalanche. What say you now to fire, Gandalf? It seems our choice is between fire and death," Boromir said.

"You may make a fire, if you can," answered Gandalf. "If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no."

But though they had brought wood and kindling by the advice of Boromir, it passed the skill of Elf or even Dwarf to strike a flame that would hold amid the swirling wind or catch in the wet fuel.

"Alas that we couldn't have the dragon's hell-breath!" Boromir said.

At last reluctantly Gandalf himself took a hand. Picking up a bundle of sticks he held it aloft for a moment, and then with a word of command, "_Naur an edraith ammen_!" he thrust the end of his staff into the midst of it. At once a great spout of green and blue flame sprang out, and the wood flared and sputtered.

"If there are any to see, then I at least am revealed to them," he said. "I have written _Gandalf is here_ in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin."

Aragorn and Legolas positioned James close to the fire as Aragorn splinted and bound James' wing against him. The splinting was separate from the binding so that he would be able to check on the large split in the skin later.

Merry and Pippin were pressed close to Sceadu, who seemed to generate an exorbitant amount of heat for one so young.

"Like a furnace, this one!" Pippin said at length. Sceadu smiled and wrapped the Hobbit in his cloak.

"My modor always told me I was very handy to have in the winter! Especially when firewood was scarce," Sceadu piped cheerfully.

Legolas stood close to the fire even though the cold had not bothered him as much as it had the others.

"I still do not understand why anyone, human, orc- or Uruk-, would be alone in the Wild at twelve summers," Legolas said. Aragorn made a small sound in the back of this throat. "That was different. You meant only to be gone for a few days. Our little orcling has mentioned no intent to return," he said, his deep grey eyes burrowing into Sceadu's yellow ones. Sceadu shifted uncomfortably.

"My modor died. There was no reason for me to stay there," he said softly.

"And no one took you in? No one from the village came to check on the orphaned child of an unmarried woman?" Boromir asked, his face harsh as he stood near the warmth of the fire. Gandalf watched them all impassively. He had rather ignored the young Uruk since he had joined the party. But even he saw the sudden change that came over the bright eyes. His dark brows furrowed and he bared his sharp teeth at Boromir.

"Yes they came! I heard them coming for me! They were…they were going to hang me!" he snarled. "I packed up what I could from the home my modor and I shared, and I ran for my life! I was afraid to die!" He stood up swiftly and walked away from the fire, leaving Merry to shiver slightly as his wonderfully warm friend left. Boromir's face had shifted to shock.

Yes, his first instinct had been to kill the orcling. But…but surely the people of a village…who had _known_ the child…if he was as innocent as he said…would they not have shown mercy…? But he knew the answer as soon as he had asked it in his head. No. No mercy to an Orc, not even a child. Perhaps it would have been kinder on the child for his mother to have given him to his own kind… But how to do that? One doesn't just hunt down Orcs to give them children, no matter what breed they are…

"Oh, Shadow…" Merry said softly. He stood from his stooped position at the fire, but Legolas' hand rested on his shoulder.

"I can bear to be away from the fire longer than you. I will go to him, hobbit friend," Legolas said.

"I know you don't like him, Legolas. But he's just a boy. He's all by himself in this cruel world. Please be kind to him," Merry pleaded, holding onto the Elf's hand.

"I will not be unkind," Legolas replied. He walked lightly over the deep snow to where the youngling had stalked. His shoulders were hunched defensively and he could hear the lad chomping his teeth together.

"Boromir does not mean to seem unkind. Long have his people fought against orc-kind, and he is slow to forget that, as he should be," Legolas said. Sceadu turned his head slightly.

"He is from Gondor, right?" he asked. Legolas made a noise of assent. "I have never been to Gondor. Neither have the Fighting Uruks marched on Gondor. From orcs I may be bred, but I am not an Orc. But neither am I a Man. They called me a freak. They told me that nobody would ever accept me. And they were right. I am of two worlds and I belong to neither. Sometimes I wish I had the courage to just fall upon my own sword. But I am afraid to die," Sceadu's voice was warbling slightly as he spoke.

"Why do you fear to die?" Legolas asked.

"I don't…I don't want…" Sceadu wrapped his arms around himself. "I don't want to go to Hell," he finished, shivering slightly.

"Why would you go to hell?" Legolas' voice was very soft, and he could see Sceadu's ears twitching to hear him. Sceadu turned to him, yellow eyes brimming with tears.

"Where else would a monster go?" he asked. "I know my modor cared for me, but sometimes even she couldn't look at me. Do you know what it's like when your own modor can't look you in the face because she's afraid of you?" Sceadu continued, trying to blink back his tears. "I didn't even get…I didn't even get time enough to cry for her when she died. The healer that had been with her went to the Elder of our village to ask for someone to dig the grave, and that's when the others came for me. I saw the rope in their hands. They chased me when I ran, but they were no match for my speed. I've been on my own for four months, now. I dream that they catch me. Sometimes I can feel a rope around my neck and I wake up gasping. I would…I would give anything to be back at home with modor, sitting in front of the fire and listening to her speak,"

His breaths were coming in short gasps as he fought his tears. Legolas put a hand on his shoulder and turned him towards him. He placed his hands on either side of the warm, brown face.

"You never mourned your mother's passing?" he asked. Sceadu shook his head, afraid to speak. "Let it go." Legolas ordered. Sceadu was shaking his head continuously. "You must let it go. You must mourn her passing before you can heal. It is okay to be sad at the passing of a loved one," Those words seemed to break the last of Sceadu's resolve and he crumbled under Legolas' hands. Heaving sobs tore from him and wracked his thin body with tremors. Legolas pulled him close and he buried his face in the green tunic, clutching at the elf like a life-line. Legolas ran one hand over his hair. He would give the orcling credit for having very nice hair. It was sleek and straight, but very thick.

He cried until his body began to sag with exhaustion. Then he felt the strong arms of the Elf pick him up. He squeaked a bit in protest and Legolas put his hand on the lad's head, pushing his face against his shoulder.

"Relax. We will go back to the fire. I believe Merry is worried for you," Legolas murmured comfortingly. Sceadu nodded against the elf's shoulder.

When he approached the fire he could see that the golden gaze of the dragon was glowing by the fire. He was lying in the snow, shivering violently, but he was awake.

"Ah, our dragon is even awake and awaits our return," Legolas said. He saw Sceadu's lips quirk a bit.

"F-fuck sn-snow," James stuttered.

"I rather think that is implausible and I highly suggest that it not be attempted for it may get someone frostbitten," Aragorn said. James' tail moved weakly and slapped the Ranger across his head. Aragorn yelped and then laughed, patting James' trembling leg. Legolas leaned against the rock wall with his burden, still holding Sceadu as he dozed lightly against him. At length, Aragorn spoke.

"The night is getting old," said Aragorn. "The dawn is not far off."

"If any dawn can pierce these clouds," said Gimli. Boromir stepped out of the circle and stared up into the blackness.

"The snow is growing less," he said, "and the wind is quieter."

Gimli looked up and shook his head. "Caradhras has not forgiven us," he said. "He has more snow yet to fling at us, if we go on. The sooner we go back and down the better."

To this they all agreed.

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Well there we go! No Draca in this one. I'm saving her. :3 I'm 'bout to fuck up Gríma's schedule a little. Draca may have been shut up, but she's not dead and her spirit isn't broken. She was in Slytherin and she knows when to put her head down and when to blow things up (Ooops did I say that out loud? Why yes. Yes I did.) Although, if you guys wanted to, I would be open to things (pranks/tricks) Draca could pull on Gríma and his men to keep life around Edoras interesting. Keep in mind, though, her magic is limited.

Now, I forgot to mention last chapter: In my sick little head, Saruman has been working on the Uruks for about…eh…twenty years or so. His Uruk-hai are pulled right out of the ground fully grown, so that's why the oldest possible Uruk would have been technically eight years old when Sceadu was born. Saying that, I'm sure that the first couple 'batches' were wonky, so he had to do several. I may mention something along those lines. (Later. When my Redlings appear again. Mwa ha ha.)

Now, Sirius, Lucius, Harry, _and Orion _were in this chapter. I should hope (beg, plead) that is enough to get me some sweet loving. In reviews. Yes? Do that. Press the button. Riiiiiiight…._there._ Yea, there. :D


	8. Resolve

I am going to be gone for the weekend and wanted to get this chapter up for you all. It's not quite as long, but it gets the group ever closer to Moria, and I wasn't going to rush their entrance. }:3 And the further away we get from the beginning, the closer we get to Amon Hen. I am still on the fence about what I want to do. I'm very close to writing out a few chapters of each of my decisions, and then when the time comes and I make the choice, then just deleting the other chaps. I dunno.

I got such a great response from last chapter. I made squee noises. A lot. And a lot of people favorite the story too! Those are exciting, but reviews are just…indescribable!

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Chapter 8 – Resolve

The threat of snow lifted; the clouds began to break and the light grew broader. A cold wind flowed down behind them, as they turned their backs on the Redhorn Gate, and stumbled wearily down the slope. Caradhras had defeated them.

Merry walked hand-in-hand with Sceadu. The youngling seemed lighter but at the same time a bit more subdued since his admissions to Legolas in the snow. He had slept against the elf for a little while before wanting to be on his own feet again. Now he was glued to Merry's side for comfort and companionship. And rather than feel left out, Pippin was teaching the young Uruk all about life in the Shire.

"It sounds so lovely," Sceadu commented as Pippin began describing the beautiful rolling hills. Pippin was excellent at descriptions, and Sceadu found that if he closed his eyes he could almost picture himself standing on one of the hilltops.

Gandalf was once more at the head of the group, leading them to where there was once a door into Moria. He was restrained and quiet as they walked, his heart heavy with the burden of their destination. But they either faced Moria or a return to Rivendell. And although their hearts would be cheered by a return to the fair hidden valley, it would be a return of defeat, and no one wanted to return there without a victory for the Free Peoples.

Boromir and Aragorn walked abreast of each other, both Men silent on their journey. Gimli walked behind them, occasionally grumbling about their long legs. The Hobbits and Sceadu walked behind the three as James and Bill trailed them, with Legolas bringing up the rear to protect their injured dragon and supply pony.

James felt terrible. The cold had made him weak and sluggish. His thoughts were muzzy and hard to grasp at best. And with his wing injured his whole system of balance was shot. He kept drifting towards his good side, once to the point of putting his head under the pony's hooves. Bill had shouldered him back into his own path with a snort of displeasure. The pony seemed used to the dragon's presence now and did not let the scaled predator get away with anything.

He was worried about his wing. A break could be the last thing that ever happened to him. Without flight he was, in his own opinion, nearly worthless. Sure he could still shoot fire out of his face, but what good was that? Any liquored up drunk with a torch and a mouthful of bourbon could do that. Flying was his release, and if he was grounded he would seriously consider just setting the entirety of Arda on fire and sticking his middle fingers up to everyone as they burned.

He almost snapped at Aragorn when the Man startled him out of his reverie by laying a hand on his flank. Aragorn gave him a rather wide-eyed look before carefully unbinding his wing to look at the break and the split flesh.

"Good news and bad news, my flighty friend," he said softly. "The good news is that the break, while bad, was a very clean break. I was able to set it back well. And luckily for you it was on the thicker bones near the base of your wing. The more delicate bones may not have healed as well. I believe a few weeks on the ground will heal you nicely in that regard. The bad news is this split in the skin doesn't want to stop bleeding. It really needs stitches, but I don't possess a needle thick enough to pierce even this more tender flesh. It would be like trying to sew tree bark," Aragorn said softly.

"If you can't sew it back together, can you paste it?" Sceadu asked. Aragorn's split-second first reaction was to tell the Uruk that skin wasn't like a broken bowl to be pieced back together. Then he bit his tongue and thought about it. He narrowed his eyes at the half-orc, who looked rather pale as the Man eyed him.

"That…that might work. Brilliant idea, Master Uruk," Aragorn said with an incline of his head.

James had a small bottle of pine pitch in his pack. When asked why, he merely shrugged.

"You never know," he said cryptically. Boromir, watching the whole proceedings, decided then that it would probably be in his best interests not to piss of the dragon. If it wanted to use him as a sleeping toy he was quite inclined to let it.

Aragorn cleaned the wound thoroughly and spread an antiseptic paste over the jagged open flesh. James merely trembled a bit beneath him. Then he used a few strips of cloth bandage dipped in the pitch to make butterfly stitches for the wound. He placed a few patches of clean cloth over the makeshift stitches before binding the wing again to keep him from pulling them loose.

The wind was heavy against them, and more than once the Hobbits tasted mouthfuls of their own curly hair as they rested.

"Why do you not braid your hair?" Sceadu asked. "You surely are old enough to have your trainer braids?" he asked.

"Trainer braids?" Merry asked.

"When you are old enough to begin training with your sword, you retrieve your trainer braids. These are mine," he said, pointing to the braids at his temple. They were thin and plain, a simple leather tie at the end to keep them held. "When I came of age I would get my Warrior Braids. They meet at the back and are decorated with beads of your village depending on your station and prowess in battle. The Elves do something similar, but I don't think they use beads," he said, looking to Legolas for confirmation. Legolas nodded fondly, remembering when he had gotten his own Warrior braids.

"Perhaps our friend is on to something, hobbit friends. Your hair is in your way as it is. And a warrior's braids are designed to prevent just that. Perhaps, Sceadu, you could help Merry and Pippin pull back their hair, and I will help Frodo and Samwise," Legolas said, moving to the two Hobbits.

And so it was, when they rested for the night, that Frodo and Sam were given Elven warrior's braids to keep their thick curly hair out of their eyes, and Sceadu gave Merry and Pippin Rohirric braids. They varied little to the untrained eye. Now the wind, however strong it was, did not shove the Hobbit's hair straight into their eyes and mouths.

"How the wind howls!" Frodo said, fingering his new braid. At these words all fell into silent thought. They heard the wind hissing among the rocks and trees, and there was a howling and wailing round them in the empty spaces of the night. Suddenly Aragorn leapt to his feet.

"How the wind howls!" he cried. "It is howling with wolf-voices. The Wargs have come west of the Mountains!"

"How far is Moria?" asked Boromir.

"There was a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies, and maybe twenty as the wolf runs," answered Gandalf grimly.

"Then let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow, if we can," said Boromir. "The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears."

"True!" said Aragorn, loosening his sword in its sheath. "But where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls."

"Really? We're rhyming now?" James asked, irritably. His stomach was growling with hunger and his blood still moved sluggishly from their ill-fated trip up- and down- the mountain. He could feel his patience slipping quickly. He slipped his makeshift saddlebags carefully over his head to free himself up for a fight if it was necessary.

Sceadu felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He saw the others readying themselves to fight if it was necessary, but all he wanted to do was hide underneath a rock. He clicked his teeth together a few times before nearly slapping himself. He was of Rohirric blood. The spirit of the horselords coursed through him. Not only that…his father was a Fighting Uruk-hai! Bred for ferocity and fearless in the face of danger! The Uruks were a source of terror for his mother's people, but for the moment it was a source of strength for him.

He puffed up his chest and laid his hand on his sword.

"I will fight with you!" he said with a steady voice. Aragorn's grey eyes studied him for a moment before looking back into the darkness. Gimli muttered something in Khuzdul and then sniggered at his own joke. Boromir laughed outright. He put his hand on the young Uruk's head.

"Your spirit is to be appreciated, child of Rohan, but you are unneeded. We have a wizard, two Men, a Dwarf, a Dragon and an Elf that are much more experienced in the art of battle. Even the Hobbits have more experience," he said. Sceadu shook the hand from his head and glared heatedly at the man of Gondor.

For their defense in the night the Company climbed to the top of the small hill under which they had been sheltering. It was crowned with a knot of old and twisted trees, about which lay a broken circle of boulder-stones. In the midst of this they lit a fire, for there was no hope that darkness and silence would keep their trail from discovery by the hunting packs.

They sat around the fire and basically waited for the attack that was sure to come. The Hobbits dozed uneasily around the fire, protected by the ring of warriors. Sceadu sat up defiantly with the others, his dark brows furrowed as he sat on the ground at Legolas' feet. A low growl escaped his chest when he saw the flashing and glaring of many eyes. Legolas' hand stroked the top of his head, but Sceadu noticed that Legolas had his bow in easy reach.

"Is it wrong that I want to fight for you?" Sceadu asked Legolas. Legolas' ageless grey gaze abandoned his watch of the darkness for a few moments to look at him.

"No. You are willing to fight for friends. That is never wrong. Boromir is a good man, he is, but he tends to speak before he thinks. He meant only to keep you safe in trying to keep you from battle," Legolas replied softly.

At a gap in the circle a great dark wolf-shape could be seen halted, gazing at them. A shuddering howl broke from him, as if he were a captain summoning his pack to the assault. Sceadu leapt to his feet, something deep and animalistic singing in his blood. He opened his mouth and shouted a challenge at the wolf, but it sounded rather like a kitten hissing. The wolf warbled in return, an animalistic laugh at the half-orc's attempts. Sceadu's blood boiled and his heart raced. He took a deep breath, the feeling of predatory anger going to his toes, before he opened his mouth again.

He _roared._ It was animalistic and intense like the bellowing of a bear. The wolf's large ears stood upright and it backed away a few steps. Then its large head tilted slightly and it growled again, advancing on the ring of stones. Torn from a shocked reverie, Gandalf shot to his feet and stalked towards the wolf, his staff aloft.

"Listen, Hound of Sauron!" he cried. "Gandalf is here. Fly, if you value your foul skin! I will shrivel you from tail to snout, if you come within this ring."

With a great snarl the wolf leapt forward. A blur of black intercepted it as James tackled the wolf to the ground. It clearly had not seen or smelled the Dragon in the shadows, and its dying scream was choked off as James sank his teeth into its throat. He jerked back, ripping out the throat of the wolf and bathing his snout in blood. Then he threw his head back and roared his challenge to the other wolves. The watching eyes were suddenly extinguished. Gandalf and Aragorn strode forward, but the hill was deserted; the hunting packs had fled. All about them the darkness grew silent, and no cry came on the sighing wind.

James looked at the bloody corpse of the wolf and sighed. Deep hunger gnawed at his belly and he glanced up to see the rest of the group watching him.

"I won't waste meat," James said softly. He saw the disgust in Boromir's face and the judgment that passed across Aragorn's eyes. His large ears drooped a bit.

"Why would you? It's perfectly good meat," Sceadu said. James looked at the youngling. He could see something in those shining yellow depths. Longing?

"You hungry too?" he asked. Sceadu looked around at the others. He shuffled at the dirt a bit with his boots, but nodded sullenly. His face was drawn into a grimace. He was ashamed. "Do not be ashamed. Meat is meat. You are starving, boy."

James and Sceadu shared a meal of the wolf. James sat with his good side towards the group, using his wing to shield the sight of him and the Half-Uruk eating raw wolf meat. He ate slowly, allowing the young Uruk to eat his fill before he picked the bones clean. It filled his belly and gave him renewed strength. His blood was pumping now, and when he was through eating he threw his head back and let out a tongue of flame into the air.

He ripped off one of the femurs and carried it to the fire, his teeth clicking against the bone as he gnawed it happily.

"That's disgusting," Boromir said, noticing the shiny blood almost up to James' eyes. The dragon stopped gnawing and stared at him unblinkingly for several long moments. Boromir felt a cold sweat break out on his skin.

"You're next," he said simply, before his jaws closed powerfully over the femur, snapping it loudly so he could suck out the marrow.

The night was old, and westward the waning moon was setting, gleaming fitfully through the breaking clouds. Suddenly Frodo started from sleep. Without warning a storm of howls broke out fierce and wild all about the camp. A great host of Wargs had gathered silently and was now attacking them from every side at once.

There were vigorous roars from the dragon as he whirled amongst them. But one great wolf landed on his back, drawing a shriek from him when it landed on his wing. His head flung around and grabbed the Warg, flinging it into a group of its comrades.

Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas were fighting in a deadly triangle, dealing death and pain to any who got close. Gimli's axe was flashing nearby and even the hobbits were getting in a few glancing blows. Sceadu thrust his sword up as a wolf charged at him, sinking into the creature's throat and up through its skull. The smell of blood filled his nostrils and he snarled, showing his sharp teeth to the next warg.

Gandalf spoke words of power, seeming to grow as he did, and a tree sparked into flame. The fire jumped from tree-top to tree-top until their haven was ringed with a great wreath of dazzling fire. Legolas loosed one more arrow and the tip caught fire as it flew, before plunging burning into the heart of a great wolf-chieftain. The others fled.

The fire faded, leaving nothing but smoke and ash to blow darkly as the sun finally rose. It was a bleak dawn with little hope. When the full light of the morning came no signs of the wolves were to be found, and they looked in vain for the bodies of the dead. No trace of the fight remained but the charred trees and the arrows of Legolas lying on the hill-top. All were undamaged save one of which only the point was left.

"It is as I feared," said Gandalf. "These were no ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness. Let us eat quickly and go!"

"I do not know which to hope," said Boromir grimly. "That Gandalf will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the gates lost forever. All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likeliest chance. Lead on!"

The Company were footsore and tired; but they trudged doggedly along the rough and winding track for many miles.

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He caressed her inexpertly, his overly warm fingers dragging through her hair and then down her shoulders. Over her back and down to the swell of her buttocks those hands wandered. She stared ahead, making no sound as he explored her as someone with a new toy. He moved his hands to the curve of her hip, moving to embrace her from behind. He nuzzled neck lightly before leaning his head forward and running his tongue along the back of her ear, ending at the delicately pointed tip.

Her body betrayed her. She shuddered in his grasp and a low moan reverberated through her, forcing air through her nostrils.

"So it's true, then. Those ears are extremely sensitive," he said softly, his oily voice right in her ear. He repeated the action and she shuddered again, going nearly boneless in his grasp with liquid pleasure. "Lean forward, Wizardess," he growled. She complied without a fight. What could she say? Nothing, as her lips were sealed quite effectively. He forced her legs apart with his knees and entered her swiftly from behind.

It was over relatively quickly and then he wrapped himself back up in his heavy robes and furs before leaving her in her quarters. Draca sighed softly when he left, tears moistening her eyelashes as she pulled on her green dress. She shoved her feet into her leather slippers and grabbed her staff from the corner. It was little more than an item of comfort with her magic bound as it was. She wrapped a thin scarf around her face to hide her hideously stitched lips before walking out of her room.

She walked through the hallway of the Meduseld, the silver-shod tip of her staff clicking against the floor as she walked. There were few people about this time of day, and so she disappeared into one of the side gardens. Though there were no flowers this early in January, it was still nice to be outside. The light of the sun lit up the place and she tilted her head upwards toward the beautiful warmth. Tears flooded her cheeks as the golden light bathed her face.

"Why are you out here by yourself?"

She turned to see the King's son, Théodred, staring at her suspiciously. She shrank away a little, unable to defend herself vocally.

"You are Gríma's new whore, are you not?" he asked harshly. Her tears, which had not quite dried, spilled from her eyes again at the description. "I care not what you are. You serve purpose enough. With you here his dark gaze has been off of my cousin, Éowyn. But I am curious as to your name."

She shook her head slightly, her hand coming to her throat. She tapped the hollow of her throat slightly, hoping to convey the message. He sneered at her.

"It figures that Worm would want a woman who could not speak. Although I'm surprised he would choose someone like you. It was widely believed he watched Éowyn because he was fascinated at her spirit," he said. Then he narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't know why I've said that. But if what you say is true, then it's not like you can repeat it. If what you say _isn't _true, then I give you my full promise that you will wish that Gríma had left you in whatever gutter he pulled out you of, wench," he growled. She bowed her head at him. He stared at her for a few moments more before disappearing.

Draca's silver gaze hardened. This was simply unacceptable. She was about to turn this overgrown rodeo on its head. Her mouth curled into a smile beneath her scarf, pulling at the threads of her stitches. Oh yes. This back alley hick town was about to get a taste of a Malfoy. She balanced her staff in the crook of her arm and rubbed her hands together.

May the Valar bless her efforts to annoy the ever-loving hell out of Gríma, the perverted worm.

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Oh it's _on, _now. Now don't get mad at Théodred. Draca hasn't been at Edoras long enough to really sway anyone either way as to what her loyalties are. She can't speak so she really can't defend herself. All the people would be able to see is a woman who traveled to the place with Gríma, a man who is distrusted but not openly disobeyed because of his connection to the king. I've got plans for Draca and her movement against Wormtongue.

I'm going to start this early. I would love feedback for this story. I love ideas, or love to hear your guesses for what is to come. I treasure each review. I really do. The few moments that you guys take to write a few words about the chapter is a reward for me. It lets me know that I am pleasing you guys with this story. I try to review each story I read for that very reason. When author's write they want to know that people are enjoying their work. And it is very simple to do on a fanfiction site such as this one, where each chapter can be reviewed.

Don't forget to favorite/follow, or review!


	9. No Joke

Well not much to tell about this one! I have enjoyed everyone's responses. I didn't forget about Harry and the Dynamic Duo he's traveling with. In fact they're at the beginning here! Lolz. I hope you guys enjoy this next installation and let me have a nice review to tell me. Favorites and Follows are wonderful, but you only get to do that once. But you can review each chapter. =D You should do that. Pwease?

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Chapter 9 – No Joke

Harry rested his face in his hands and wept bitterly. Seventy years his son had been in this world. Seventy years…he must have thought that he had been abandoned by the ones he called friend and family. He couldn't have known that Harry had spent the last ten years looking for him in this place. He couldn't have known that Harry had gone toe-to-toe with the Minister of Magic to try and get an army to bring him home. He couldn't have known that Ginny sometimes sat with a photograph of James and cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

Lucius was quiet, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands steepled beneath his chin as he stared off into the distance. His little Hatchling…his little Dragonet. She was not so little anymore. She was not so young. Had she felt the sting of loneliness in her time in this place? He hoped that she had found a place to learn and love and grow. He hoped that she was well. His greatest hope had ever been to see her happy…to see her loved. When she was but a little girl she would come to him, crying into his lap and asking why her father didn't show her the same attention and love that he showed her brother. She couldn't know that Draco had struggled greatly with Astoria's death. She couldn't know that he had walked in on Draco sitting in a pool of his own blood after trying to slit his own wrists. She couldn't know…how much _he _loved her instead.

"We must move quickly. Our journey will be long and hard, but if we are to arrive in time to be of any assistance we must leave soon. Already I feel we are pressed for time," Pollando said. He spread out a tattered map before them. Harry wiped his eyes and moved towards the table, his steps moving him into his military mindset. He stood straighter; now thinking what could be done to help.

Lucius sat up straight, moving beside Sirius to look down at the map. The mangy man had been inseparable from his son since they had arrived at the cave. And Lucius admitted to himself openly that he was jealous. He wanted to hold his granddaughter again. He wanted to hear her sing and watch her practice her spellwork in the main garden.

"We are here, in the forest just on the border of the Sea of Rhûn. We must head for Rohan. There is a great reckoning about to take place and the Valar have been sending us directions through Visions. Irmo has warned us about trying to return before the time was right. We have been biding our time and raising an army of Rhûnic men and women to face the scourge of Sauron. Being to the Northwest of Mordor they have faced his wrath for centuries. There are many who would cower in fear and bend to Sauron's will, but there are also many who will ride with us. There are many who will fight for a day of freedom," Alatar said, removing his straw hat. He drew a long knife from a hilt at his side and presented it to Pollando.

The other wizard then stood at Alatar's back and skillfully and quickly sheared the white hair short, leaving only a thick cloud of white hair where the long, neat braid had been. Alatar took the knife from Pollando and returned the favor, slicing neatly through the braid and cutting away the long strands. The whole affair took less than five minutes. Alatar then returned the blade to his side.

"That was an ancient Rhûnic battle tradition. The cutting away of long hair represents the separation of battle anxiety and the readiness to ride to battle as light as possible. It was rather exhilarating if anti-climactic," he said cheerfully.

Orion perked up, retrieving his own knife from his side. He presented it to his father.

"Would you do mine?" he asked. Sirius' dark eyebrows rose, but he did as Orion asked. Orion's long hair fell in dark clumps. The final product was a tad uneven, but it did make him look more like he had when he had disappeared from their world.

Then Sirius returned the knife and turned his back to his son, reaching up and pulling the tie from his hair. Harry sucked in a surprised breath. Sirius' hair had ever been rather long. It was a sign of prestige and lineage among the Pureblood houses. And though Sirius had never put much stock in bloodlines, his long hair was one tradition that had not been loathsome to keep.

"Are you sure, dad?" Orion asked quietly.

"Aye. I will ride into battle with my son, bereft of the heavy ties that have burdened my soul these last few years. I will ride for honor and freedom," Sirius said. Orion worked quickly, his father's hair joining his own in the pile below.

When it was done, Sirius put his hands to his head, tugging at the shorter strands with nervous awe.

"It hasn't been this short since I was ten years old. I was finally allowed to start growing it when I started Hogwarts," he said quietly. Then his eyes darted to Lucius. He still sported the long hair of the Pureblood Lords.

"No," Lucius said, his voice soft but commanding. "No. My hair will stay as it is now."

"Come on, you stuffy arse! It's quite liberating!" Sirius said, grinning wildly. It was Pollando who stood in front of Lucius, the gaze of his good eye locking with Lucius' deep grey eyes.

"Why do you hide it from them?" he asked. Lucius looked surprised for a moment, before self-consciously smoothing his hair down, as if making sure it hid something. Sirius narrowed his eyes at Lucius. "It does no good. Your granddaughter accepted it shortly after arriving. It eased her entrance in Mirkwood."

Then Orion gasped, a delighted look coming across his face.

"Of _course_!" he said. "Draca spoke of it, of course, but that was nigh on sixty years ago! My memory is good, but it isn't _that _good!" he laughed.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Lucius snapped, a cold sweat beading on his forehead.

"Mr. Malfoy. We both know what I'm talking about. It's nothing to be ashamed of…. You shouldn't have such low elf esteem," Orion said. Lucius bristled angrily as Sirius and Harry both looked at Orion in confusion. Alatar and Pollando snickered good naturedly. "It's very elf-ish to keep it all to yourself," Orion continued.

"You are a miserable little bastard," Lucius growled.

"Aww…you don't have very good elf-control, do you?" he asked, laughter making his voice shake. "Well, it's not something you're born knowing…you must be elf-taught."

"I will kill you,"

"What is going on?" Harry asked.

"The Malfoy family has a large collection of High Elven blood," Orion said. "It's awakened in this world. They share the features of the Peredhel, or the Half-Elven. My guess is that he's hiding some fantastic pointy ears under that silver mane," Orion said. Sirius looked like Christmas had come early.

"I _knew _there was something weird about you in the woods! You're a goddamn _elf!_ This is absolutely _priceless,_" he snickered. "You're like a little fairy now, aren't you?"

Lucius glared at Orion and Sirius, his grey eyes nearly going molten silver with anger. "All of my hate," he snarled, before stalking out of the cave.

"Aw come on, elfy! I want to see your ears!" Sirius laughed, chasing him out of the cave. Harry sighed.

"It's going to be a _long_ journey."

* * *

He lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had made a nice fulfilling visit to the Lady Wizard before retiring for the night. His body was relaxed, but still sleep evaded him. The source?

*Chrrp chrrp*

There was an Eru-be-damned _cricket _in the room. He had searched all through the place for it, but no matter where he went, the damned thing was just on the edge of his perception, just a few inches away from where he was.

*Chrrp chrrp*

It was nights like this that he hated being in Rohan, and especially in the Meduseld. This backwater palace was as Kingly as a pauper's tent. Sure, there were a few signs of majesty in the carvings and tapestries, but the plain royalty of the Rohirric nobility was galling.

He sighed and rolled to his side on the soft sheets, pulling his heavy blanket over his head and trying to hide his face from the very non-peaceful darkness.

*Chrrp chrrp*

"Goddamn harbinger of disquiet!" he snapped, throwing his covers back and sitting up. He whipped a house-robe from a stand near his bed, shoving his feet into thick slippers as he tied the robe. He approached the door and wrenched it open. A bucket had been precariously tipped against his door, and the contents spilled suddenly over his slipper covered feet.

The cold, muddy water stained his slippers and sent a jolt through him as he let out a string of curses. He kicked the bucket as hard as he could manage, sending the wooden pail flying across the hall to clatter against the wall. He turned on his heel to get another pair of slippers, but the soft bottom of his house slippers lost traction against the slippery mud and his feet flew out from under him, causing him to land painfully on his bony back. The breath was forced from his lungs, and for several moments he saw brilliant colors behind his eyelids before he could finally draw a breath.

Someone was going to pay for this! Whoever had that absolute _gall_ to ruin his favorite slippers would be taken to the center of Edoras and whipped until their entrails leaked out of their lifeless body. He sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in his back. He tried to use a decorative table to get him to his feet, but his slippers skidded across the mud again, this time causing him to bang his knee to the floor.

"Argh!" he groaned loudly. "This can hardly get worse," he winced.

*Chrrp chrrp*

* * *

"Well. Fuck."

That summed their situation up quite nicely, after having faced a tentacle monster in the dammed up pond in front of the doors of Moria. They had wrestled Frodo from its grasp and retreated back into the Mine after discovering it was more a tomb than a mine. But it was now their only refuge as the tentacles had pulled the doors shut.

"Well, well!" said Gandalf. "The passage is blocked behind us now, and there is only one way out – on the other side of the mountains. I fear from the sounds that boulders have been piled up, and the trees uprooted and thrown across the gate. I am sorry; for the trees were beautiful, and had stood so long."

"I felt that something horrible was near from the moment that my foot first touched the water," said Frodo. "What was the thing, or were there many of them?"

"I do not know," answered Gandalf; "but the arms were all guided by one purpose. Something has crept, or has been driven out of dark waters under the mountains. There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world." He did not speak aloud his thought that whatever it was that dwelt in the lake, it had seized on Frodo first among all the Company.

Legolas' sharp ears listened for anything that might be in the dark with them. When they had first seen the great massacre that had happened here, a kind of dread had seized his soul. He did not like the dark at the best of times. This…was nigh unbearable. The darkness was thick and absolute, and now he was surrounded by stone that was impenetrable to the light of the stars.

A soft whimper caught his attention. Gandalf's staff suddenly flared dimly, casting light all around them, and he saw Sceadu with his arms around himself, shivering violently with his eyes shut tightly. Tears washed his face as he shuddered.

"Shadow?" Merry said softly, and reached out to touch the Urukling. Sceadu gave an impressive jump before stumbling backwards. He tripped over the bones of a goblin and went tumbling into the skeleton of a dwarf. His hand landed on the arrow-studded skull and he sobbed aloud.

"For all the grace of the Valar, _shut up!_" Gimli hissed at him. Merry was at his side, coaxing him to his knees and holding him close.

"I cannot see! The light is too dim! My eyes are useless in this place!" He sobbed, shivering in terror.

"I cannot make the light any brighter. It is drawing enough attention to us that I have this light to begin with. Master Meriadoc will just have to be your eyes. I am sorry, my boy," Gandalf said softly. Sceadu cried against Merry's chest as the Hobbit stroked his hair.

"This is getting more ridiculous by the moment!" Gimli huffed. "Just push the boy off into a ravine and we'll be done with him! Honestly! Scared of the dark!"

"If we are pushing members of this company into ravines for being frightened of the dark, Master Dwarf, then you shall have to find a way to shove me in as well," Legolas sniffed, proud that his voice didn't warble obviously. "It took me three hundred years not to give in to the paralyzing fear, ere I would be as terrified as Master Shadow."

There was a rustling sound, and Gandalf whirled about, aiming his staff towards the sound. James was bent over his pack, and looked up as the light fell on him, his golden eyes gleaming eerily in the dimness.

"What? I'm a dragon…See well in darkness," he said. He pulled up a small empty vial and a length of chord. After tying the chord around the vial he pulled the cork topper and opened his jaws over the mouth of the vial. He began to breathe very deliberately, concentrating his magic and fire. A small, bright spark fell from between his lips, floating languidly into the vial. He stoppered the vial and grinned triumphantly. It was like a dim star, twinkling merrily in the glass.

"Ta da!" he said. Then he walked languidly over to Sceadu and presented the glowing vial with a flourish.

"Look, Shadow! Dragon made you something to light your way!" Merry said softly. Sceadu looked up, looking at the vial with awe.

"That's for me?" he squeaked. James nodded, leaning forward and slipping the long chord around Sceadu's neck. He rested a finger against the glass. It was comfortingly warm and began to twinkle in time with the beating of his heart. Sceadu grinned.

"That was very kind, Dragon. How did you do it?" Merry asked. James walked back to his pack, shouldering it carefully to avoid his injured wing.

"Magic, yo," he said, nodding to himself as if it all made sense. Boromir had been standing near the dragon, and moved slightly away as the beast fumbled with the straps of its bags.

"Quietly now. It's a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed," Gandalf said, before taking his place at the head of their team. James took the rear guard, watching both behind and ahead since his eyes were keen in the darkness. Sceadu walked with one hand in Merry's and the other clutched at his new light. The magical light cast a slightly bluer light than Gandalf's staff, allowing the light to be brighter without catching any more attention.

Frodo and Sam walked behind Gandalf and in front of Boromir and Aragorn. Gimli trailed the Men and the Hobbits and Sceadu were behind him, with Legolas going behind the hobbits and in front of James.

The Company behind him spoke seldom, and then only in hurried whispers. There was no sound but the sound of their own feet: the dull stump of Gimli's dwarf-boots; the heavy tread of Boromir; the light step of Legolas; the soft, scarce-heard patter of hobbit-feet, the slow firm footfalls of Aragorn with his long stride, Sceadu's boots scuffling against the dirt, and the occasional scrape of James' claws against stone. When they halted for a moment they heard nothing at all, unless it was occasionally a faint trickle and drip of unseen water. Yet Frodo began to hear, or to imagine that he heard, something else: like the faint fall of soft bare feet. It was never loud enough, or near enough, for him to feel certain that he heard it; but once it had started it never stopped, while the Company was moving. But it was not an echo, for when they halted it pattered on for a little all by itself, and then grew still.

Once, when they had sat to rest as Gandalf thought about the way they were supposed to go, he looked down into a ravine that was lit from the echoing light of Gandalf's staff and the soft light of Sceadu's starlight, and saw a figure jumping from rock to rock. He started slightly, rising to his feet and walking to where Gandalf was sitting.

"There is something down there, Gandalf!" Frodo said insistently. Gandalf looked unsurprised and unconcerned.

"Tis Gollum," he said, glancing over to see Legolas murmuring something to the orcling. Even with the little magic light provided by the dragon the boy was nearly paralyzed with fear of the dark. He felt badly for the boy, and could not See his purpose on the journey. It troubled him the Elrond had not forseen this creature on their journey.

"He escaped the dungeon of Barad Dûr!" Frodo breathed in quiet consternation. Gandalf's blue gaze caught him, and he noticed the bushy eyebrows were raised.

"Escaped? Or was set loose?" he said. Frodo's hand came to his chest. "And now the Ring has drawn him here. He will never be rid of his need for it. He hates and loves the Ring, as he hates and loves himself. Sméagol's life is a sad story. Yes, Sméagol he was once called. Before the Ring found him...before it drove him mad," Gandalf finished softly. Frodo's face twisted a bit.

"It's a pity Bilbo didn't kill him when he had the chance!" he hissed.

"Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo's hand. Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo? Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many."

Frodo's eyes grew wet as he looked away from the wizard. "I wish…I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish Bilbo had never found it. I wish none of this had happened."

"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, in which case you also were meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought," Gandalf said, reaching out to touch Frodo's shoulder. "Dark times lay ahead, my boy. Dark times indeed. But so long as there is someone who will fight it, there is hope. And hope should never be abandoned, for it is hope that has both saved and broken nations. It is hope that gives strength. And right now we must be strong. Can you be strong, Frodo?"

"I do not feel strong. I feel weak. I feel like a coward for being afraid of this," he replied.

"Being afraid of the One, and the one who made that which you carry is not weakness. It is common sense. But know this: many times he has been broken. And he can be broken again with the destruction of his Anchor," Gandalf said with conviction. Frodo nodded.

"Thank you, Gandalf. Though my heart is still heavy with this burden my spirit feels a bit stronger!"

Gandalf gave him a small smile, before suddenly looking at the three tunnels that he had to choose between. "Ah! It's that way!"

"He's remembered!" Merry said, standing up and dusting his trousers. Sceadu took his hand as soon as it was available.

"No, but the air is less foul down the right-hand way. And when in doubt, Master Meriadoc, you can always follow your nose!"

Boromir stood from where he had been sitting on the ground resting his legs. He spared a glance for the young half-breed that was clinging to Merry. He had to admit that the boy was disarmingly sweet. If he had looked more human it would be easy to like him. And he was a fierce fighter, too. But it was easy to expect that from one of the Rohirrim.

The Elf liked the boy too. It was intriguing, really, that the Prince of Mirkwood would be so attached to an orcling.

The boy slipped from Merry's grasp to step towards Legolas, a question on the tip of his tongue and his glass light bobbing, when he tripped over a rock. He landed solidly over one of the fissures in the rock. There was an ominous creaking sound as the fissure suddenly spread and spidered beneath his hands. The rock beneath his hands appeared ready to crumble.

"No one move," Aragorn said sternly. He took stock of the situation as best he could in the dim light. "Legolas. You are the lightest. See if you can get close enough to Shadow to grasp him. Boromir, you are the closest to Legolas. If the ground crumbles, you may need to grab Legolas. Can you reach him?"

Boromir watched as Legolas moved very carefully to Sceadu, who was trembling in fright.

"Move very slowly, _tithen pen, _and crawl to me," Legolas said, squatting down a bit and reaching towards the Orcling. Aragorn had moved forward a few steps and was moving Merry and the other Hobbits away from the cracked rock.

"We cannot lose the whole company to a broken floor, and we would be useless if everyone was lost," Aragorn said gently when Merry protested to being separated from Sceadu.

Sceadu moved at a snail's pace, crawling towards the Elf. Tears were streaming from his eyes as he trembled. He got almost to Legolas when the floor creaked again. He stopped, terror blooming on his face.

"It's all right, little one. It's okay. Move a little closer," Legolas murmured. Sceadu whimpered softly and moved his hand forward. Several things happened when he placed his hand down. The floor began crumbling from the original fissure outward. Sceadu shouted and tried to reach for Legolas as he felt the floor disappearing under his feet. Boromir took a step towards the Elf and the youngling and reached forward to grab him, but his extra weight shattered the cracked floor. Legolas, Boromir and Sceadu were swallowed in a hole of dust and rock.

"No!" Several voices cried out.

* * *

The fall was not long. They slammed into uneven ground that was once a staircase. Boromir's breath left him in a whoosh as his heavy body bounced down several of the stone stairs, before he found what was abruptly the end of the staircase, opening into a gaping hole. His legs slid over the edge and he gave a breathless shout.

He scrabbled for something to hold onto before a hand grasped his, causing him to stop. He coughed in the dust and blinked many times to clear his watering eyes. He could see the boy's light dimly in the dusty air, and he could see it was the Uruk's hand that held his tightly, even as Legolas held the boy.

With a heave the boy pulled on him, and as soon as Boromir could get his feet under him he helped himself out of the yawning hole. He collapsed on his side, looking at the battered Elf and Uruk.

"This sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke," he said, coughing a bit to clear his throat. Legolas' eyes were watering in the dust as he stood up, but he still managed a half-hearted glare at Boromir.

"What are you on about?" he asked, probing gently at a bleeding gash on Sceadu's forehead.

" A Man, an Elf and a half-Uruk fall into a hole…"

* * *

DEVIATION! *Gasp!* How will this work out? Will the three be reunited with their friends? Will Boromir ever get a date? Tune in next time to find out, same Dragon time, Same Dragon Network.

Lol I have had too much sugar. It's night time now. Don't forget to review!


	10. Deep and Dark Places

Well, well, welly welly well. I…I has a sad. My creativity. My emotions. All poured into a story….with no one to luv me. :'( That is my sad face. I have had awesomely brilliant reactions from this story. I love every single review. I'm not lying. I've gone back and read the reviews from previous chapters several times. They _please _me. I've read and written a lot of fanfiction in my day. I've known those douches that say "I won't post until I have blank number of reviews." That's ultra dumb. I'm gonna post this story because I'm enjoying the fuck out of writing it. I have a dragon and I'm not afraid to write him in awkward, Boromir snuggling scenes. I have half-Uruks and Wizards waiting in the wings for a chance at awesome. I have Galadriel-who-sometimes-drinks-her-mirror-water-an d-may-or-may-not-blow-up-Thranduil-and-that's-why- he-hates-her, and her husband Celeborn-who-slices-dragons-faces. I cut the power of Sauron from the Three Elven Rings and let a half-dragon wizard slam the Dark Lord's face into a tree. I'm not afraid of some plot deviation, here. To a certain extent, anyway. Did I mention Dragons? No? Well there's that.

I'm enjoying the hell out of this story. I just hope you are too. You could let me know if you are by dropping me a line (or seven) and telling me. :D Peace, my home skillet bizkitz.

* * *

Chapter 10 – Deep and Dark Places

"Shadow!"

Merry tried to wrench himself out of Strider's grasp, but the Man's hands held him tightly.

"Merry! We do not know the integrity of the stone around that opening! You mustn't approach it! Be still!" Aragorn commanded. The authority in his voice gave Merry pause, but then tears took him. He went boneless with grief in Aragorn's hold. Pippin and Frodo approached, taking the grieving Hobbit from Aragorn.

"Gimli! You know more about stone than any here. How safe is it to approach that opening?" Gandalf asked. Gimli lowered himself to kneel; tapping his axe against the stone as he slowly crawled towards the place where the floor opened up.

"There was a pillar below that collapsed- or was taken down. Seems to me that everything is safe right up to the edge," the Dwarf said, standing to his feet. Gandalf approached the edge of the black opening, holding his staff over the hole. There was a cloud of dust that he could see about twenty feet down. It was unclear what the room may have been at one time, but there were the remains of a staircase directly below.

The dragon moved to the edge, looking down with keen eyes.

"I see them," James said. The dust shifted a bit and Gandalf could see moving shapes amongst the cloud, and a small light. One large shape…that would be Boromir. A tall, thin shape was Legolas. And the moving light was Shadow. "They live."

"Boromir, Legolas, and Shadow," Gandalf spoke steadily, his voice raised slightly but trying to draw as little attention as possible.

"I hear you, Mithrandir," Came Legolas' voice, strangled slightly with dust.

"Good, good. Are you hurt?" Gandalf asked.

"A few scrapes. Boromir's armor bore the brunt of his fall and he was saved from taking another tumble by our dear youngling. Friend shadow has a few cuts. I feel no ill effects as of yet," Legolas replied, holding the shaking young man to him. "I don't suppose anyone has rope?"

"Rope! I knew I'd need it if I didn't pack it, and by golly we could have used it!" Sam grumbled. Aragorn turned to James.

"I don't suppose you have rope, Naurlam?" he asked. James grumbled.

"No rope. Forgot to pack it," he said.

"No rope, Master Legolas. Not even our vastly prepared dragon friend has any," Gandalf said. Boromir heard this, and scoffed aloud.

"Are you telling me that the frigging dragon packed _pine pitch _and_ empty vials_ but not any _rope_? We are on a quest to save the Eru-damned _world_ and nobody here, not amongst eleven companions, has any rope? Oh, this is just incomparable. Absolutely inestimable," Boromir snapped.

He heard a growl waft downwards and looked up to see the dragon leaning over the edge of the hole, his golden eyes gleaming in the light of Gandalf's staff.

"Why can't the dragon fly down here?" he asked upwards.

"Boromir, the dragon was caught in the avalanche at Caradhras. His wing is not healed," Aragorn said.

"Can he at least make a couple more of those starlights for Legolas and I? We do not have a staff," Boromir replied, sparing a glance at the boy's necklace light.

James went back into his pack, searching for a couple extra vials. The pockets that had his potions supplies inside were the best bet. He shifted through the few herbs and readymade potions, trying to decide what might be sacrificed. Finally he withdrew a sleeping potion and a stomach soothing potion. He emptied the contents onto the floor. He found a couple more strands of chord, but it was not enough for two necklaces. They would have to wear their lights around their wrists or tie it at their belt.

He made the two lights and stood at the edge of the hole, using a Levitation spell to lower them gently. He had no more vials to spare and he couldn't afford to let these break. He wished he could use Levitation to retrieve the three below, but human Levitation was tricky, and he had never tried it in his dragon form. If he made the wrong move he could drop them face first into gaping nothingness.

Boromir and Legolas took the new lights from the air.

"What is the plan, Mithrandir? We do not know this place. How will we get to you?" Legolas asked, looping the chord around the strap of his pack.

"If I remember the layout correctly, there is a Great Hall that is easily reached from all floors. It is above us. You must keep traveling upwards. That is the only advice I can give you. Whatever you do, you must not travel downwards," Gandalf said vehemently.

"Sir Gimli? Do you have any advice for us?" asked Sceadu's voice. Gimli looked a bit surprised to have been called on by the boy, when his opinion of the lad was very clear.

"Don't step on any more fissures," Gimli replied gruffly.

"Helpful. Very helpful," Boromir growled.

"What Gandalf said is true. Keep to the fresher tunnels, for they will be the ones to lead upwards. Stay away from the stagnant air," Gimli added.

"Better. Thank you, Master Dwarf. May we all be brought together again soon," Legolas said. Then he turned to the two companions. "I am lighter of step and keener of eye. I will be our guide, trying to spot any pitfalls or missteps. Little Shadow must walk between us, Boromir. Do you mind taking rear guard?" Legolas asked.

Boromir adjusted the pack and shield over his back.

"I do not mind. Let us make haste and rejoin our company as quickly as possible."

So they moved forward, up the staircase, with only the bluish light of the Dragon's starlights to give them sight.

* * *

Gandalf seemed pleased. "I chose the right way," he said. "At last we are coming to the habitable parts, and I guess that we are not far now from the eastern side. But we are high up, a good deal higher than the Dimrill Gate, unless I am mistaken. From the feeling of the air we must be in a wide hall. I will now risk a little real light."

He raised his staff, and for a brief instant there was a blaze like a flash of lightning. Great shadows sprang up and fled, and for a second they saw a vast roof far above their heads upheld by many mighty pillars hewn of stone. Before them and on either side stretched a huge empty hall; its black walls, polished and smooth as glass, flashed and glittered. Three other entrances they saw, dark black arches: one straight before them eastwards, and one on either side. Then the light went out.

"That is all that I shall venture on for the present," said Gandalf. "There used to be great windows on the mountain-side, and shafts leading out to the light in the upper reaches of the Mines. I think we have reached them now, but it is night outside again, and we cannot tell until morning. If I am right, tomorrow we may actually see the morning peeping in. But in the meanwhile we had better go no further. Let us rest, if we can. Things have gone well so far, and the greater part of the dark road is over. But we are not through yet, and it is a long way down to the Gates that open on the world."

"Is this the hall that we will reunite with our friends?" Merry asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

He had taken to his protective role in a fierce and surprising way. Indeed he saw Sceadu as family, even if it wasn't by blood. If they all made it through this ordeal, he had plans to take the young man with him back to the Shire. He would be the first Orc to step foot in those rolling hills, but it was his hope that Sceadu could live a life of peace in the emerald hills that he couldn't find anywhere else in this world. He had spoken of this dream to no one else, not even Pippin. He wished he had mentioned it to the boy before they had become separated. Though nature had made them quite opposite, he would take the half-Uruk as a son if he would be allowed to do so. Youth did not make poor parents if their hearts were set on the task.

"Nay. This hall and the hall I spoke of are separated by chambers and stairways. Even then we can only hope that our friends haven't become lost in the maze that is Moria. Their lights should prove invaluable: without them I fear they would have stood no chance," Gandalf said, sparing a look at the dragon. "Our winged friend may very well have saved their lives."

"Just doing my job," James said. He felt a timid pat on his side from Pippin and he swung his head towards the Hobbit, rubbing his nose against Pippin's shoulder in return.

"Let us rest here tonight. It may be in a few hours we will see the morning light," Gandalf said.

"Legolas would have been glad of that. I would that they were all here," Aragorn replied softly.

"If the lad hadn't gone stomping about-," Gimli started.

"Any of us could have broken the floor. Shadow certainly isn't the heaviest among us. We have two Men, an armored Dwarf, a Wizard, and a Dragon that all weigh more than he does individually," Merry growled. Gimli was surprised at the Hobbit's fervor.

"You defend him with the ferociousness of a father, Master Hobbit," he said softly. Merry's face lost a little of its ferocity.

"Any father would be lucky to have a son such as Shadow. Perhaps in time I may lay that claim to the boy," Merry said, causing more than a few eyebrows to rise.

"You would adopt the orc-pup?" Gimli asked in vast surprise.

"He cannot help his lineage. And who knows? Perhaps there are others like him. Perhaps he was sent to us to be an ambassador of his kind. I hear story and story again of the cruelty of orcs. Uruks are bred from them, and seem to share the love of the same sport. Shadow's mother cannot be the first woman who was…who has…run afoul of the creatures in such a way," Merry sputtered a bit. Rape was something that was just not heard of in the Shire. There hadn't been such a case in over a hundred years. Hobbits just…didn't do stuff like that.

"If Uruks favor the sport of their Orc fathers, then why do you defend the boy with such fervor?" Gandalf asked candidly. He was truly curious.

"Because he is also half human…and does he not deserve the chance to prove that the mercy of his mother overcame the blood sport of his father? Are we to judge you, Gandalf, on the actions of Saruman? He is another of your kind. Are we to judge Aragorn and Boromir based on the actions of the Men of Harad or Rhûn? They are Men. Do we judge all elves on the surliness of King Thranduil? There are ever bad examples and there will always be bad people in this world, but should the ones who want to do good be punished for it all?" Merry asked.

They were silent. Never had Merry been so vehement or passionate. He seemed very mature in that moment, even to the point of sobering Pippin. The other Hobbits were quiet with contemplation. Gandalf gave the Hobbit a wide smile, his beard rustling with it.

"My, my, Master Meriadoc. If you keep it up, you may be counted amongst the Wise, soon," he teased good naturedly. Merry flushed with pleasure at the compliment. "But you are right. I meant you no harm with my question. Here, come and sit with me for a spell, that we may discuss the idea of young Master Shadow being an ambassador," he finished, patting the ground upon which he was resting. Merry moved to sit beside the wizard, nervously twisting at his pack straps.

The Company spent that night in the great cavernous hall, huddled close together in a corner to escape the draught: there seemed to be a steady inflow of chill air through the eastern archway.

* * *

He stood in front of a twisted throne of bone and stone, encased in dark armor and trailing a cloak of deep crimson. His helmet was removed, revealing a cold face devoid of emotion. His long hair was black as pitch and streaked white in places. His eyebrows were thick and arched sharply, lending a villainous air to his face. But his eyes were the most prominent feature. They were like fire, red and orange and yellow that burned in swirling dark magic and marred by a thin black slit for the pupil.

Sixty years it had been since he had faced that boy-dragon in that forsaken Dream world. He had lost his connection with the Three. He had taken a humiliating beating by the boy, and then a near thrashing by that Elf whore, Galadriel. He had held her beneath him, felt her life leaving her as he strangled her…he had been so very close to claiming her life. But she had gotten back the power he had bound from her Ring of Power, and then the connection between them had been severed.

And with the severing he had lost the ability to spy on the Dragon. The only comfort he had was that the beast was still bound in his dragon form. He could not take the Man form just yet. He had a suspicion that if the boy ever met up with that witch Galadriel again he would probably have a way to remove the collar, but it had not happened yet.

There were too many annoyances as of late. His Ring was out there somewhere, in the hands of a lesser being, and he was unable to leave the Tower because of it. His power was bound to Barad Dûr for the time being, so he had to remain within its walls to keep this form. It was true that he could leave as a spirit, but it took a good six months for him to rematerialize when he left the tower, so he had not done that in a long, _long _time.

A shadowy figure slithered through the door, floating along languidly like a dark cloud.

"Ah, Hathalmyrn, my servant. What news have you to bring to me?" Sauron asked sibilantly, seating himself upon his wretched throne like a dark King.

"My Master, thy malevolence is matched only by thy power," The wraith hissed, landing on two feet and sinking gracefully to his knees in front of his master. "I bring news of Wizards, Master. There are Wizards coming out of the ground like moles!"

"Wizards? Are they sent by the Valar? Have they realized that their paltry army of craftsmen is no match for the Great Wolf?" he asked, a grin forming on his face and revealing the points of individually sharpened teeth.

"The White Wizard possessed an apprentice who was not sent by the Valar, but was graced by them. Thou wouldst be pleased to know that it is a woman: she is no threat!" the wraith laughed. Sauron laughed lightly, the sound like steel tumbling in a stone landslide. "But there are three more, Master. They have landed in the Forest of Rhûn. And they have cast their lot with the Blue Wizards."

"The Blue Wizards?" Sauron asked silkily. "But, my good and faithful Hathalmyrn…you told me that the Blue Wizards were destroyed in a raid nearly five hundred years ago," he purred. Hathalmyrn froze where he knelt, before a keening whimper escaped him.

"We thought they were, Master! Have mercy on a wretched servant! I have only served thee!" Hathalmyrn wailed, reaching out his bony hands and placing himself prostrate before the black throne.

"Oh, Hathalmyrn," Sauron murmured, standing from the throne. He walked with heavy steps down the blackened stone of the dais, before crouching near the prostrate wraith. His armor, imbued with dark magic, bent with his will. He picked up the wraith by the back of its cloak like a recalcitrant puppy. He held the quivering form near his face, his flickering eyes boring into the faceless hood. "I need all of my servants in one piece right now. You have a period of grace announced to you at this time. But know, my naughty little wraith, that once I have my Ring on my hand again, I will have you chained spread-eagle in Udûn, roasting over a fiery chasm while Khamûl whips you with lashes of ice and shadow. You will pay _dearly _for lying to me," he rumbled calmly, before dropping the wraith and standing tall.

His booted foot lashed out, kicking the lump of shrouded bones clean across the room.

"Get out of my sight and remedy the problem of the Blue Wizards and their consorts! Fail me again and I will retract my grace to you, you useless pile of festering bones!" Sauron barked. Hathalmyrn scrambled to his feet and lifted off of the ground, shooting out of the throne room as if the hounds of hell were on his feet.

Sauron stalked back up the stone steps and fell heavily into his throne.

"I am surrounded by failure. Surely I was never so incompetent when I served Morgoth? He would not have given half as much grace as I have. Perhaps I am _too _merciful. Should I start burning my enemies at the stake again? Maybe I should have their remains raped by orcs and send back their rotting heads to their families? Hmm…there's always having them lynched in their own front yard and leaving the body to dangle as an ornament for their neighbors…"

Sometimes it was difficult to be a Dark Lord.

* * *

Deep in the heart of Moria, far below the shadows of the upper levels and under the silvery veins of Mithril it lay in slumber. Long had it slept peacefully in the deep earth, allowing the soothing shadows to keep it company. It was of an Age long past, a time when monsters and demons walked the world freely. The power of its Master had once brought the world of Men to its knees, and nearly cowed the hearts of Elves and the power of the Valar. With a start it awoke.

Fire flared like a furnace coming to life, filling the chamber it slept in with light and heat. It stretched luxuriously across the floor, flexing talons of onyx and scraping its curved horns across the floor. Sparks arced away from the protuberances and the taste of sulfur and ash was in its mouth.

What was it that had disturbed it from its slumber?

A long tongue of fire flitted from its mouth, tasting and smelling the air. It was familiar and foreign at the same time. Master had once wielded it. It tasted the air several more times, the feeling growing stronger and stronger. A sudden intake of breath was drawn, wicking all of the air out of the room and causing the fire in its body to flicker a bit. Then the breath was released and the fire flared, a delighted gleam coming to crimson and black eyes.

_Magic._

* * *

Well. That's awkward.

I know, I know, I didn't have any major action here in Moria. Would it make you feel better to know that there's going to be some crazy shenanigans going on next chapter? Also a lot of innuendos and some bro bonding. *Happy face*

And fire. Lots and lots of gratuitous fire. I like fire. It's pretty. -_-

So, I've poured out my little Hobbit's heart to you and given you a Dark Lord with anger issues. You should let me know how you liked it. You should also tell me exactly how you'd like to see Draca deal with Wormtongue….because honestly the only reason I didn't put in a scene about that in this chapter is because I'm still pondering it, and I do not want to rush that shit. I want to let it simmer.

…Review?


	11. New Devilry

Oh my god. This thing was a _monster._ Lolz…you see what I did there? I said _monster_…and I hinted at fire…and they're in Moria. I need to sleep….like three hours ago. But I stayed up and wrote this. For _you._ I hope you enjoy it. I probably could have saved myself some effort if I had focused solely on Moria, but honestly there's a bit with Draca and Gríma, and I just enjoyed writing it. This thing was _eleven _pages in MS Word. Enjoy.

Please enjoy.

For the love of all that is holy and good in the world, _enjoy._

* * *

Chapter 11 – New Devilry

Dinner was a silent affair. All involved parties seemed to be glaring at each other save the King, who sat and dutifully spooned thin soup into his mouth. His pale, careworn eyes stared longingly at a piece of bread before he resignedly went back to his soup. The action was not lost to Éowyn.

"Uncle," She said softly. Théoden's eyes moved towards her, as did Gríma's dark gaze. "Perhaps you would be able to get back your strength if you ate a bit of meat?" she suggested. Théodred watched the whole thing carefully. He did not like Gríma, but his father held the man's counsel with an almost illogical reverence, and to cross Gríma was to cross the King.

"Gracious me," Gríma said in concern, laying his hand on the King's arm. "My Lord, were you able to take it I would personally have you served the finest roasted meat. But the poor lass, in her youthful over exuberance, fails to see that your constitution isn't what it should be. The elixirs you take for strength are powerful and weaken the stomach," the man said.

"My niece means well, friend Gríma," Théoden said. Gríma's eyes softened as he gazed upon the niece of the king.

"Of course she does. We all just want you to get well," the man purred. Éowyn bit her lip and glared frostily at him. Éomer would have already exploded and have been sent away, but Éowyn's fuse was longer. It was just as well that her brother was out with his _éored _at the moment, because he didn't need another confrontation with Gríma.

"I believe I will retire for the night," Théoden said. He stood from his place at the head of the table. "Peaceful dreams to you all," he murmured in goodbye, before shuffling weakly out of their private dining quarters.

As he walked through the hallway, his mind was troubled. Éowyn seemed to be getting more and more unobservant as of late. She forgot that his medicines were hard on his body and tried to press him beyond his limits. She did not seem to respect Gríma's authority. At least Théodred was a good man, and knew that his father's counselor had only their best interests at heart. What was he to do with his poor, wayward niece?

He stumbled suddenly, but gentle fingers wrapped around his arm, steadying him. He looked around to see who had saved him, and his rheumy eyes met with a pair of clear grey eyes, shining like starlight upon the Isen River. Her skin was pale and smooth as moonlight and hair, like strands of corn silk, fell in a waterfall around her face and shoulders, the pale strands streaked white in some places. A scarf was wrapped around her face, hiding her visage from just below her nostrils down.

She wore a plain dress of green and a patched cloak to match. One of her hands was clutching a tall staff of cherry wood, entwined in several places with silver metalwork.

"Thank you, Fair one," he said softly. A smile touched her eyes, crinkling the skin around the edges slightly. He returned the smile with a watery one. "I don't suppose I could call upon your services to help an old man back to his room? I feel I am more tired than I thought," he said softly. She nodded but said nothing, keeping her gentle hold on his arm as they walked. Her leather slippers made little noise on the walkway, but his soft shoes shuffled and rasped against the stone.

Draca thought desperately of something to do for the old king. He did not deserve to be stuck under Gríma's machinations, and neither did the people of Edoras deserve to have their king manipulated so. She had studied with some of the Elven Mystics of Mirkwood, and the only thing she could think of was a song of power. It did not require magic, as such, but merely a strong will.

She hummed as they walked, trying to weave the magic. The words were chanted through her mind several times, and by the time they reached the King's quarters, she was sure that he was walking a little straighter. He stood at the doorway to his room, and when he turned his eyes on her she rejoiced to see the blue of his eyes was a little deeper than it had been.

"Thank you, fair maiden," he said in thanks. She nodded in return. "What is your name?" he asked. She looked troubled, before tapping at her throat and shaking her head. "You cannot speak?" he clarified.

"Her name is Ithilrhas, My King,"

Théoden turned to see Gríma standing behind the woman in the hallway.

"She does not talk. Her face was damaged in a fire and so were her vocal chords. She hides the scars beneath her scarf," Gríma said. "I made a promise to her guardian to take good care of her."

"You are a good man, Gríma," The king said, turning aside and retiring to his room. Gríma stared at Draca's back for several moments before she finally turned and faced him.

"Follow me, Lady Wizard. I believe it's time I showed you what happens when you cross me," he purred, his voice deceptively soft. Trembling slightly, Draca followed him.

* * *

She held the clips carefully, inserting the blade under the metal of her shackle. It was about time to find out if Saruman had reinforced these bonds with magic. She inhaled sharply as her dress scraped against her back. Gríma had done a number on her last night. To put it bluntly: he had beaten her like a rug. Luckily he had used a belt and not anything that bit into the skin. Her back was incredibly tight and swollen today and it hurt to move, but she had played her part well for him last night. She had sobbed and pleaded with him as best she could without words, catering to his cruel streak and his need for power. Then she had obediently attended his baser instincts before he had allowed her to leave his room.

She took a deep breath and put her weight into the shears. She could have sang aloud when she heard the tell-tale _clink_ of metal snapping. She looked down at her wrist and grinned at the thin, broken metal. She carefully discarded the ring before turning her attention on the other ring. She inserted the blades of the shears at another place, having dinged the blades badly from her first attempt. Then with another satisfying sound, she broke the other bracelet.

She knew she didn't have the power to break the curses over her own stitches or remove Saruman's power from the King's mind, but she could surely fuck up Gríma's power trip a bit.

* * *

He walked down the hallway, cursing angrily under his breath with every step. That goddamn _cricket _had found its way into his room again, and he had not slept well. He had not experienced another muddy water incident in the hallway, but he had discovered one of the cats of the Meduseld had left a surprise in his slipper.

He was certain he could get the King to outlaw having cats inside. They were filthy creatures anyway, covered in their own spit at all times. And the _hair._

The King was already holding court when he arrived. Court was always so damned boring. A bunch of peasants whining on about how little food they had…their children were _starving_. They had best go ahead and starve, to reduce the surplus population that had been mounting for years in Rohan. He took his place at the king's side, offering advice and counsel for each problem that was brought before him. He was quite glad when he managed to convince the king that a break would be of use.

Whatever the Lady Wizard had done, it had put him back greatly on his progress, and it would take weeks to push the King's mind back under as deeply as it had been.

"Gríma, would you please fetch Háma for me? I wish to discuss some of the schedules of the guards," Théoden said in a voice that brooked no room for argument. Gríma nodded at the King and excused himself, grinding his teeth in silent rage. He should beat the girl again for her interference!

He would have to walk to the guard's quarters that flanked the other side of the Meduseld. There were plenty of people milling about in the main hall, but he didn't get suspicious until he passed through the main doorway. A scraping sound was the only warning he got before a wave of thick, sticky syrup fell on him from above. He gasped aloud and looked up to see who had doused him, but a wave of white obscured his vision as a large wave of chicken feathers fell next.

There was deadly silence around him, but a few snickers escaped. He reached up and wiped the feathers away from his eyes before looking up again. There were several support beams over the porch of the Meduseld that could be accessed by someone who was not afraid of heights, but never had anyone launched any sort of attack from them. He could see nothing that would have given away an intruder. A young squire struggling to keep in his laughter caught his attention.

"You! Boy!" Gríma snapped. The boy's eyes widened and he stood at attention. "Fetch Háma the Doorwarden for the King! And be quick about it!" he barked. The boy nodded and was off like a firework. Gríma gathered the remains of his tattered pride about him and turned to go back to his room. A good punishment for the Lady Wizard would be to attend him in his bath. His boots skidded across the sticky, syrupy mess on the floor, and he had to grip the doorframe to keep from falling. A maid was laughing uproariously. He grabbed her arm. "Clean this mess up! Do you wish for the King to slip and fall?"

Her face sobered quickly. "Nay, Lord Gríma," she said. He let her go and stalked back towards his rooms.

This was fast turning into a nightmare!

* * *

"'Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.' He is dead then. It's as I feared." Gandalf said softly, removing his hat in respect. Gimli pulled the hood of his cloak up and lowered his head to hide his face.

"_Kilmin malur ni zaram kalil ra narag. Kheled-zâram ... Balin tazlifi_," He chanted, making a sign from his chest to his forehead and extending the palm outwards. It seemed to be a Dwarven sign of farewell to the dead.

James lowered his head in respect, sighing at the sharp scent of loss in the room. Gandalf had picked up a book from the long dead fingers of one of the dwarves guarding the tomb and was reading aloud from it. The words were the last any living dwarf had written in this place. They were desperate and frightened as they told the final account of their desperate fight.

"We cannot get out…a shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming!" he read. The others were silent and James could hear the slightly hitched breathing of the quietly grieving dwarf. There was a sudden noise and they all whipped around to see Pippin standing near an abandoned well. A skeleton had been perched upon it when they entered, but now the body was missing its head. And as they watched the rest of the body slid as though in slow motion, falling into the well and taking a rotten bucket with it. The cacophony was terrifying, a ricocheting clatter that seemed to bounce off of every available surface. Pippin winced at each new wave of noise, his face drawn with pained mortification. Then, at last, there was silence. Gandalf was the first to recover.

"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" he snapped. The look on Pippin's face was miserable.

"Hey, now!" James said in Pippin's defence. "It was a bad…idea, sure….but Pippin didn't know…it would cause noise," He said brokenly, moving towards the Hobbit. He placed a claw on the lad's shoulder and received a grateful look in return. Gandalf turned away from them, muttering angrily.

_Boom…Boom_

James moved a few steps forward and looked over the edge of the well. Gandalf moved beside him, his face grave.

_Boom._

"That is a signal or I've never heard one," Aragorn said softly, his hand straying to Andúril.

_Boom-Boom._

"Aye, but are they signaling because of us, or in spite of us?" Gandalf asked, moving his cloak aside to make it easier to fetch his own sword.

_Boom. Ba-ba-Boom. Boom Ba-ba-Boom._

"Frodo!" Sam gasped, looking down at the hilt that he carried Sting in. Frodo lifted the blade, showing that it was glowing blue in the dimness of the room. He drew it immediately.

"Orcs!" Frodo said. Gandalf also drew Glamdring with a hiss. Aragorn rushed towards the door that they had entered in, glancing out. He drew his head back in immediately as two arrows struck just where he had looked.

"They…they have a cave troll," Aragorn said softly, his eyes wide from surprise. James slid the pack from his back easily, stepping forward to put himself in front of the hobbits. Gimli leapt forward, his axe drawn and shining in the light.

"Let them come! There is still one Dwarf in Moria that draws breath!" he yelled.

They could hear the Orcs pounding against the door. It was splintered by many axes and blades, and they could see the other weapons poking through the opening and the sudden calls and hisses of the hideous creatures.

"_Maush! Maush!_" They heard a voice cry. Gandalf's staff light made Glamdring glow violently.

"You will not make meat of us, foul beasts! Come to your deaths at the hand of Gandalf the Grey!" he yelled.

"_Laga shara!" _Screeched one of the Orcs as they broke through the door. James drew in a breath and roared his challenge to the Orcs. There was actually a pause in the creatures as they took in the dragon, but the cave troll with them roared a return challenge to the dragon, and the fight began. Aragorn immediately beheaded one of the foul creatures with practiced ease, using the momentum of his swing to propel himself forward and stab another in the throat. Black blood bathed his sword and fell in waves over the floor.

Gimli's axe caught an orc in the stomach and he pushed it backwards to collide with several of its friends, knocking them to the ground to be trampled by the orcs advancing behind them. The cave troll suddenly lumbered into the room, indiscriminately stomping Orcs as it moved.

"_Kjani?_" The Troll asked stupidly, its jaws working hungrily.

James left everyone else to their battle with the Orcs and jumped straight for the cave troll. The Troll was deceptively fast for its size and flung up an arm, swatting him away heavily. James landed on his hind legs and stood tall for several moments, wobbling precariously, before he was able to throw himself forward onto all fours and try again. This time he ducked the Troll's reaching hands and delivered a painful slash to the creature's inner thigh as he dove by.

The troll howled and stomped in agony, catching James' tail. The dragon's scream echoed about the chamber and he whirled like a black tornado, sinking his fangs into the Troll's leg. It kicked out, freeing his tail and he released, dodging the meaty, grasping hands as he tried to dance behind it.

"For the Shire!" Pippin cried, stabbing the leg of an orc that was trying to sneak up on Aragorn. The Man whirled and finished off the creature.

"One for the Shire!" Aragorn cried to Pippin. Pippin turned to see who else he could help, and noticed that Sam had retrieved his large iron skillet in the place of his sword and was swinging wildly. The pan connected with one Orc, knocking it aside, senseless.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this!" Sam said, before clobbering another progressing orc.

An Orc advanced on Merry, but was unfortunate enough to trip on a fellow's severed arm. Merry thrust his blade upwards and closed his eyes as the orc fell towards him. He heard the sound of metal piercing flesh and felt the hot blood suddenly pour over his hands. He opened his eyes and felt the color drain from his face. The Orc had fallen in such a way that its throat was pierced by the sword. He jerked the blade back and the creature gave a death gurgle before going still.

The troll grabbed James by the tail as he made a deep gash on its stomach. It whirled him around its head like a slingshot before tossing him bodily across the room. He landed on a group of orcs and they immediately swarmed him, stabbing at his diamond-hard hide with spears and swords. He screamed when a sword stabbed painfully into the place where his skin was barely healed beneath his wing. It did not reopen the wound, but it certainly did not feel good, either. James felt his rage burn.

He took a deep breath and let loose a torrent of fire. The smell of singed flesh was in his nostril as he turned his head, breathing out another cloud of deadly breath. Several Orcs were incinerated immediately, and others were lit up like grotesque torches. They fled in agony, only to drop dead within a few moments from the extensive wounds. He thrust out his claw and gutted an orc that tried to come at him with a battle-axe.

"Aragorn? Aragorn!"

Aragorn's chest was heaving from the effort of swinging his sword and dodging attacks. But when he heard Frodo's terrified cry he turned his head. The troll had him by the ankle, swinging at him with its fist.

"Frodo!" Aragorn cried, running to where the Troll had the Hobbit. Frodo stabbed the troll with Sting and the beast released him, staring at its injured hand as if it could not figure out what had happened. Then it snarled and lifted grabbed up a large piece of the splintered door to use as a bludgeon. It was about to strike Frodo when Aragorn reached them, picking up an abandoned spear and stabbing the Troll. It did not pierce the skin, but it was enough to draw the attention to him.

Merry and Pippin, standing nearby, began to throw stones at the troll's head to keep it distracted from Frodo and Aragorn while the Man swung at it. The troll gave a roar of anger and swung its free arm wildly, catching Aragorn and launching him across the room. He slammed into the wall and fell down, his sword falling from his grasp. Frodo started towards the man, but the Troll grabbed his foot again and tossed him back into the corner. It picked up the spear that Aragorn had used against it and jabbed forward, pinning the Hobbit to the wall.

"No!" Merry cried, stabbing the troll with his sword in the back of the leg. The troll withdrew its spear, the momentum flipping Frodo's small body face down. Merry buried his own blade in its hip, before withdrawing the blade and scaling the beast like a mountain and stabbing it again in the shoulder.

The troll flailed at its head and finally managed to grab Merry, swinging him around and throwing him to the ground. Pippin seized his place, dodging the arms and climbing up the towering troll. Gandalf and Gimli took turns stabbing at the troll and dodging out of range of its makeshift club and meaty hand. James shot forward, dipping and shifting his head to take aim at the Troll. He took a deep breath and drew in his magic, causing an arc of energy to circle his muzzle. Pippin stabbed at the troll once more in the head, causing the troll to bellow in pain. James released the concentrated beam of fire and magic. It exploded outwards like a fiery bullet, going in through the roof of the troll's mouth and blowing its brains out through the back of its head. Pippin howled as he was sprayed with troll gore.

The troll's eyes stared ahead for a few moments, before rolling back as it collapsed forward. Pippin was tossed to the side by the momentum. There was a moment of silence broken only by their gasping breaths. All of the orcs that had rushed the chamber had either fled or been killed.

"Frodo…" Sam said brokenly, walking towards his Master where he lay. Aragorn had come to his senses and grabbed his sword.

"Oh no…" Aragorn said softly, kneeling beside the Hobbit and placing Andúril aside. He rolled him over gently and actually jumped when Frodo gasped desperately.

"He's all right!" Sam said, and Gandalf released a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I'm all right…I'm not hurt," Frodo breathed.

"You should be dead!" Aragorn said in shock. "That spear would have skewered a wild boar!"

Frodo reached up and pushed aside his shirt, revealing the tunic of mithril beneath the fabric. Gimli whistled appreciatively.

"I believe there's more to this Hobbit than meets the eye…" Gandalf said.

"Transformers?" James asked groggily. They turned to him and he shook himself like a dog. "Sorry…I'm high on adrenaline," he explained. Then his ears twitched. "Can uh…can we leave?" he asked, digging his pack out from under the body of an orc.

"To the bridge of Khazad-dûm!" Gandalf cried.

* * *

Boromir shifted slightly as Sceadu gave a slight snore. The boy was incredibly warm, as he had discovered when the lad had decided to lean against him while they were trying to catch a bit of rest. They had walked for as long as they could before exhaustion started making both the half-Uruk and the Man droop weakly. Legolas had called them to a stop. They did not set up their bedrolls, but instead rested against a stone wall.

"He's rather affectionate, even in sleep," Legolas commented lightly, his voice soft. Boromir merely grunted. He had caught a few hours of sleep on and off, but the dark and silence were getting to him.

"Pl-please," Sceadu breathed. He shuddered violently against Boromir. The Man felt rather sorry for the poor boy, and shifted his arm slightly so that Sceadu was resting against his chest and under his arm.

"It's all right, Shadow," Boromir said softly. Sceadu went boneless against Boromir and gave another soft snore.

"You are good with the younglings," Legolas commented, his grey eyes twinkling in the soft bluish light of their starlights.

"The hobbits are a joy to be around. And Merry is quite fond of the boy. He reminds me a bit of my younger brother…you know…except for the whole 'half-orc' thing…I didn't even know that people like this existed," Boromir said. Legolas nodded.

"It is a shock…but it makes sense. I cannot say what I feel about that. All life is by Eru's design…but such creations seem….unholy," Legolas said. "You have a brother?"

"Yes. My brother Faramir is five years younger than I. He would have nightmares when we were younger. Sometimes he would seek me in my bed in an attempt to comfort himself from the terrors," Boromir said, a fondly nostalgic look on his face. "Have you any siblings, Legolas?" he asked.

"Nay, not by blood. But there was a rather special half-elven maiden that came to Mirkwood about seventy years ago. She was lost and alone and I suppose I adopted her as my sister, for lack of a better phrase for it," Legolas said. "I know not what has happened to her of late. She traveled to take training from a master of her craft," he said. He didn't want to think about what might have befallen the Lady Wizard when she returned to Saruman.

"She sounds very special," Boromir said in a friendly manner. Legolas laughed lightly.

"She was very magical," he replied. Boromir was about to ask Legolas to expound on that, when they heard a deep, rumbling sound.

"What is that?" Boromir asked urgently. Legolas' eyes were wide as he sprang to his feet, searching the darkness for anything that could have made the noise. He carefully approached the edge of the banister that was across the way from them, looking down into the depths of darkness. He could see an orange glow like torchlight below, and watched for a moment as it gleamed closer. It walked out of the hallway it had been traveling, and the sight froze Legolas' blood. He threw himself away from the edge.

"Run, Boromir. We must run!" he cried desperately. Boromir didn't hesitate. He shook Sceadu awake.

"Come, my lad, we must run!" he said. Sceadu shot to his feet, grabbing up his pack as they ran. Legolas made sure they were behind him and took off. Sceadu was behind him, quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Boromir fought the urge to look over the edge and ran behind them. Anything that was bad enough to spook an elf was not worth the curiosity of mortal eyes.

Their feet pounded through the hallway, no longer caring for silence or watching their steps. They finally reached the end of their hallway and passed into a great hallway of pillars. The roof was high and he could not see the ceiling with their feeble lights, but he could hear the chatter and sputtering of orcs. Had they run from one death into the cold embrace of another?

Suddenly a light appeared at the other end of the hallway.

"Look! It is Gandalf!" Legolas cried. The rest of the Fellowship was being pursued by an army of orcs. Every so often the Dragon would turn and release a tongue of flame into the mass of orcs, but others merely took their place. The two groups came together as the other orcs surrounded them, not allowing them to rejoice in the completion of their group. They quickly formed a circle, their weapons drawn outward as the orcs hissed and laughed at them.

"_Shemator krumab!_" spat one of the Orcs towards Sceadu. The boy pricked in return.

"_Lat skraefa!_" he snarled, causing the other members of the Fellowship to shudder in surprise, though they kept their gazes outward. A sudden light shined in the direction that Legolas, Boromir and Sceadu had come. A deep, resonating snarl sounded through the hallway.

"What new devilry is this?" Aragorn asked.

"A Balrog comes!" Legolas exclaimed. He had known instinctively what the demon was when he saw it.

"_Bal pauzul!_" An orc screamed, and they disappeared like roaches in the light. They heard the growl again, and Gandalf seemed to prickle with energy.

"The foe is beyond any of you. Run!" he said. They ran to the opposite end of the hallway, adjacent to where the light was entering and the way the Fellowship had come. "Quickly!" Gandalf barked, ushering them through the door.

They fled through the hallway, coming to a stairway at the end of the hall. There was fire in the hall below, and they had to take the stairway into the depths. At one point they had to leap a gap in the stairs, and nearly lost Gimli when he wouldn't allow one of the large folks to toss him. James came across last, nudging Sceadu who had lingered to make sure Merry was safe.

The bridge was less a bridge and more a thick stone beam connecting the two sides of the chasms. It was only wide enough for one person to walk across at a time.

"Over the bridge! Fly!" Gandalf cried, ushering them over the bridge. He came last, turning as the beast stepped into sight.

It was light and shadow in one, burning and swirling with ash. Its claws were made of onyx, and James thought its feet looked like a velociraptor's, with wicked, curved claws. Its face was like a mix between an ape and a bird, with a rounded head and sharp beaked mouth, all made of fire. Its eyes were black against the flame of its face, smoldering and angry. It had shiny black horns like a ram's, curving up and back over its head. Wings of shadow and ash spread wide when it entered the cavernous area.

"_You dare disturb my slumber, enemies of the Dark Master?_"

James' ears perked up as he understood the creature, taking a few steps forward.

"Anyone else understand it?" he asked. No one spoke, staring in fear at the creature.

"_I will feast on your flesh and burn you with the Twisted Ones,_" it said. There was something about the voice, though, that sounded odd to James. And the shape of it reminded him of something…something that he couldn't quite put his claw on. But then it hit him like a ton of ironic, Eru-must-be-laughing-again bricks. The creature…the Balrog…was _female._ And he could _understand _it.

He rushed forward suddenly, stepping in front of Gandalf and spreading his wings out in what he hoped was an impressive formation.

"_Hey there, hot stuff! What's a girl like you doing in a pit like this?"_ he asked. Clearly he was not speaking English. His tongue did not trip and stumble. He wasn't sure what he was speaking, but clearly the Balrog understood him.

"_Ancalagon? Is that you? My, you have gotten tiny."_ It replied.

"_I am not Ancalagon, my fireheart. I am called Naurlam, the Firetongue,"_ he said, bowing low to the fire demon. The Balrog's head twitched back and forth.

"_You are small for a dragon,"_ she rumbled. James winked at her.

"_Not where it counts, baby," _he said conspiratorially. The Balrog actually laughed. It was a terrible sound. It kind of sounded like his Uncle Percy's singing…if his Uncle Percy had also drank acid and gargled with volcanic rocks.

"Move aside, foolish dragon!" Gandalf said, pushing James with his staff. James growled at him.

"It understands me! Let me talk!" He snarled.

"_Do you want me to eat the stick man?"_ The Balrog asked, stepping forward. A great sword of fire appeared in her hand.

"_Nay, nay! As annoying as he is he is a friend of mine! Come on, baby, if you'll let us walk out of here, I promise to come back and take you out on a date you'll never forget!" _James said.

"_A dragon courting a Balrog? I believe Morgoth would have been amused._" The Balrog said, her eyes blinking rapidly. Then James realized with a mixture of revulsion and humor, that it was _fluttering its eyes_ at him.

"_Our babies would be fierce indeed. With my armor and your eyes? We would have to pry the demon-boys off of our daughters. Our sons would be devastating,"_ James said, his tongue flicking from his mouth. The Balrog responded in turn, a long tongue flitting from its beaked mouth. It approached the bridge. Gandalf struck James with his staff and stepped forward, the light glowing.

"I am a servant of the Sacred Fire, a wielder of the flame of Anor! The dark fire will not avail you!" he said, his staff glowing brilliantly.

"_How rude," _The Balrog scoffed, swinging her sword forward. Gandalf's own sword snapped up, shattering the blade of the demon in a shower of fire and embers. The Balrog bellowed angrily at the wizard.

"Go back to the shadow!" Gandalf yelled. "I say you will not pass this way."

"_Please, my love, do not engage him. He only fights for his friends. We will leave here, and I will return for you. Our love will be sung in ballads through the ages! We will make passionate love amongst the seared corpses of our enemies!" _James called.

"_We will do these things when I take care of this wizardling!_" the Balrog snarled, brandishing a whip of fire.

"You…_shall not pass!"_ Gandalf cried, driving his staff into the bridge and causing a bright flash of blue energy to appear. Flaring its nostrils, the Balrog stepped forward onto the bridge. It moved forward all of two paces before the bridge collapsed from under it as it moved towards Gandalf. The demon plunged backward into the chasm, still wielding its glowing whip.

Gandalf, exhausted, leaned on his staff and watched the Balrog fall. He turned to the others, a look of relief on his face. But even as it fell it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard's knees, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss.

"Fly, you fools!" He cried. James leapt forward and grasped for the wizard, but his claws grasped the air just as Gandalf was beyond him.

And then he was gone.

* * *

I…I am not sure what I smoked to get this…but it must have been fantastic. I'm just kidding I don't do drugs. 0_0

Translations:

_Maush_ - Meat

_Laga shara_ - Magic man

_Kjani_ - food

_Shemator_ _krumab_ - ugly worm

_Lat skraefa_ - you coward

_Bal pauzul_ - fire demon

And as to why Sceadu started speaking Orc…I'll deal with it next chapter. It was probably the same reason people could speak Parseltongue without learning it. Like…inherited or something. Fuck if I know. Also whatever the hell Gimli said was from the movie transcript. Probably the Dwarf version of "Ashes to Ashes" or something. If that's the case it was ironic. Because fuck you, that's why.

Now I had some great responses from last chapter. I had Gríma pranks in this one! I gave Draca back her magic! _I had a female Balrog with which my dragon flirted. _Where the fuck else are you going to read that? If you find it somewhere else those bitches stole it and I will cut- I mean…this is unique as far as I know.

Review? Pwease?


	12. There You'll Always Be

Oh snap, guys! Some crazy shit went down in the last chapter. Why? *Shrugs* Because I don't like doing things by half measures, as you are going to read. }:3 - That is my mischief face. It is usually a harbinger of doom.

This chapter is solely Moria and the flight to Lórien. There…is some strong stuff in this chapter. Not language-wise or anything, just emotional. I cried. I cried the whole time I was writing it, and that shit _never _happens. You'll know.

On a lighter note, thank you for all of your responses, and I hope to see some more from this one.

* * *

Chapter 12 – There You'll Always Be

"_Fly, you fools!" He cried. James leapt forward and grasped for the wizard, but his claws grasped the air just as Gandalf was beyond him._

_And then he was gone._

"Gandalf!" Frodo cried, starting forward. Aragorn grabbed him strongly and pulled him back.

"We must obey his last command!" he cried, turning and rousing the rest of the group from their horrified stupor. "Follow me!"

James stared down into the blackness for a few more seconds, as if he could bring the Wizard back by concentrating. A black arrow whizzed by his head, scratching his nose slightly. It did no damage, only serving to awaken him from his trance. He may not have loved the wizard, but he hadn't deserved death. If he had only _listened._ James was sure he had everything under control. With tears in his eyes he turned from the abyss and started after the others. Sceadu was last with Merry, both holding hands as they ran.

They ran on. The light grew before them; great shafts pierced the roof. They ran swifter. They passed into a hall, bright with daylight from its high windows in the east. They fled across it. Through its huge broken doors they passed, and suddenly before them the Great Gates opened, an arch of blazing light. There was a company of about fifty orcs between them and their final freedom into the daylight. With a roar of rage and sorrow Aragorn cut down the nearest one, and they engaged the Fellowship in battle.

One Orc tried to gut Merry with a wicked looking black blade, but Sceadu parried him back, snarling angrily. The orc seemed to recognize the twisted blood in the young man and sneered at the half-Uruk.

"Half-blood! Are you a pet for the Men? Do you let them fuck you?" the Orc hissed. Sceadu roared his challenge and attacked. The two fought savagely for several moments before Sceadu's blade sang through the air and sliced the orc's throat, drenching Sceadu's face with arterial spray. The black blood was in his mouth, hot and bitter on his tongue.

Something deep and primal snapped awake suddenly, dilating his pupils and speeding up his heartbeat. He charged at another orc, burying his blade under its armor and flinging the body aside. When it was clear that they were losing terribly, several of the orcs fled before the grief-ravaged fighters, choosing not to hold their ground. Sceadu jumped on the back of a fleeing Orc, knocking it to the ground as he buried his teeth in its neck and twisted, tearing the carotid artery and killing it within moments.

Strong hands were on him suddenly, and he heard voices as though through a cloud. Someone slapped his face, but he only snapped at the fingers. A precious splash of water was spared to throw in his face, and the cool wetness drew him out of the blood lust. The taste of orc blood was still in his mouth, but now it was sour and made him ill. He wrenched away from the hands that had held him and fell to his knees, retching violently.

Aragorn looked down at the half-Uruk, disgust and fear etched into his grim face. Black blood was smeared along Sceadu's face, and his hands and blade were bathed in it.

"Let us go! We have to get out of here!" Aragorn said. He grasped Sceadu's upper arm and pulled the boy with him, not trusting him behind his company. Out of the Gates they ran and sprang down the huge and age-worn steps, the threshold of Moria. Then, at last, they felt the wind on their faces.

Sceadu wrenched himself away from Aragorn, stopping and bending double, winded from his exertions. Aragorn stopped and turned to the rest of them. Frodo fell to his knees, sobs of grief wracking him. Sam was weeping too, and pulled Frodo to him as they cried. Merry and Pippin were also crying, now that there was a moment for their grief to show.

"We cannot stop! Boromir, help me get the hobbits to their feet. We must continue on!" he said, his voice tight. Boromir's eyes were wet as he turned to Aragorn.

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" he pleaded. Aragorn's face was full of understanding, but he shook his head.

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must get to the borders of Lothlórien," Aragorn replied.

Sceadu turned back and looked the way they had come. In a moment he knew that he had destroyed the image that the others held of him. He had lost himself to a bloodlust. And though it had not held him long, it was enough to show them his weakness. Tears filled his eyes, marring his vision. He blinked and started to turn again, when a slight movement on the wall caught his eye. In the shadow of one of the parapets of the wall of Moria, a lone archer was aiming an arrow. Sceadu's eyes flickered quickly and saw clearly that Aragorn was the target.

He acted swiftly, moving and shoving the Man with all his might. Aragorn stumbled mightily, nearly losing his footing from the unexpected attack. He turned to the foolish little orcling to give him a piece of his mind and paused. Sceadu's eyes were wide as he looked at Aragorn, tears making two tracks in the blood and dust on his face. He swallowed hard, before he glanced down. Aragorn's eyes traveled down as if under a spell, and he inhaled sharply.

A black arrow had pierced the boy's chest on the left side.

"Shadow…" Aragorn said softly. He saw Legolas in the corner of his eye, whirl and fire his own bow the way the arrow had come, picking the bowman off of the wall before he could fire again. Sceadu opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He took a half step and stumbled jerkily to his knees.

"Shadow, _no!_" Merry wailed. Merry rushed forward and caught him as he fell forward.

"M…Me-….Merry," Sceadu whimpered, deep red blood staining his lips. Merry carefully laid him back against the grass, taking one of his trembling, orc-blood stained hands. "Strider! Strider, please! You must help him!" Merry cried, his chest tightening in panic. Aragorn knelt beside the boy, examining the arrow wound. He felt a great sense of loss as he saw the amount of blood that was leaking from the wound. Sceadu gasped when he touched the area around the arrow.

"Merry. The arrow is in his heart. If we pull it out, it will rupture his heart and kill him very, very quickly," Aragorn said. Merry looked up at the heir to the throne of Gondor. The look in his eyes was of sheer anguish.

"But…he's losing so much blood, Strider. Pl-please help him," Merry said. "Strider…" Merry's shoulders began to shake as tears took him. "Shadow," he moaned.

"M-Merr…M'ry…" Sceadu stuttered. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. He knew that this was not going to be good. "'M sc…sc-scared. Don't….wanna…d-die," he whimpered. "Don't…wanna g-go…to hell."

Merry shook his head, crying pitifully. "You're not gonna go to hell, Shadow. It's all right, my boy," he said.

James felt his eyes watering. Grief was heavy in the air as he stepped forward, crouching at the boy's side. Sceadu's wide yellow eyes turned to the black dragon. James reached forward and stroked his forehead.

"Won't go to hell. Eru would not…would not send you…You are His child. No orc blood could…make you less His. Every child is precious. By His hands were….you made, dear one…and into His hands…will you return. Do not fear Death. Do not fear Him. He will receive you," James said with the certainty of one who had been in His presence. Sceadu's breaths were short and shallow.

"Y-you pro…prom-promise?" he asked. James nodded, reaching down and pressing his snout to the boy's forehead.

"I swear it," he whispered. Sceadu coughed suddenly, spraying blood into the air and crying out in agony.

"Leg…Leg'las…" Sceadu gasped. James moved aside as the Elf knelt gracefully by the boy's side, his grey eyes wet with sadness.

"Yes, _tithen pen?_" he asked, grasping the boy's other hand.

"Will you…s-sing to me? 'M tired…" Sceadu said. His eyes were streaming as he turned to Merry. "Don't…don't le-leave me," he whispered.

"Never. I'll never leave you, my lad. I'll stay right here. I'll stay right here, because I love you, Shadow. I love you," Merry said, his breath heaving in his chest. Sceadu looked at Merry in awe for a few moments, before a brilliant smile lit up his tired face.

"I…love…you…too," he said carefully, making sure he got out all the words.

"What do you want me to sing, friend Shadow?" Legolas asked. Sceadu closed his eyes for a few moments and Merry cried out. Sceadu's eyes popped open and looked at Merry. Then he looked back at Legolas.

"Sing 'bout Lothlórien. I d-don't think I'm….gonna g-get to s-see it," Sceadu said. Legolas smiled sadly and rubbed Sceadu's hand.

"I will sing about the Lady of the Golden Wood. She is as fair as the moonlight and constant as the stars," Legolas said. Sceadu smiled waveringly and winced. Blood continued to seep steadily from the arrow, wetting his deerskin shirt.

"You just relax, Shadow. I love you very much. Everything will be just fine," Merry said, reaching out and stroking Sceadu's warm cheek. Sceadu leaned into the gentle touch, his eyes fluttering shut. His breaths were hitching in his throat, and sounds were starting to get muzzy in his ears. Legolas took a breath and began to sing.

"_Breath of life upon the land_

_Waters stirred by unseen hand_

_Through the leaves of forest fair_

_Lives the Lady Golden Hair_

_Wise and lovely, good and bright_

_Star that shines in darkest night_

_Land for timeless Age has stood_

_Led by Lady of the Wood_

_Beauty in this world unknown_

_City built upon no stone_

_Cradled in the Golden Trees_

_Swaying softly in the Breeze_

_Time as dreaming rivers pass_

_Gaze upon the Looking Glass_

_Hidden deep within the lair_

_Of Ageless Lady Golden Hair_

Shadow's shallow breaths had stopped in the middle of the last verse. Legolas knew that the boy was gone, and his voice wavered on the last two lines. His eyes were shut tightly as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sceadu's forehead, reaching up and brushing a strand of black hair away from his face.

Merry wailed anew, pressing his face into the still shoulder.

"No, no, no," he sobbed. "Poor Shadow, my poor boy,"

"Merry," Aragorn said softly. "We have to get out of here. The orcs will be upon us all if we don't-,"

"We're not leaving him here! He gave his life for _you_ and we will not repay that by leaving him behind like garbage!" Merry snapped.

"I will do it. Go ahead of me," James said. "My claws can dig. I will bury him."

Merry looked at the dragon. His wing, his injured wing, which he had extended in front of the Balrog, as now pressed close against him again to keep it safe. The scaly face was washed with tears of grief and exhaustion. Aragorn put his hand on Merry's shoulder.

"The orcs will not bother a dragon. Naurlam will see to Shadow's burial. We must say our goodbyes to him now and go," he said firmly. Merry reached over and drew Sceadu's sword from his sheath, still smeared with sticky orc blood. He placed it downward on Sceadu's chest, clasping the cooling hands over the hilt. He then gently tugged the starlight necklace out, letting it rest over his hands.

"I hope this lights your way into the place where your mother rests. I loved you, Shadow, though we knew each other but a little while. I never got to tell you…." Merry shut his eyes, his breath sobbing in his throat. "I never got to tell you that I was going to take you to my home. I was going to make you my son. You would have loved the Shire. Rest in peace, my boy. I love you," Merry said, pressing a final kiss to Sceadu's forehead before he allowed Aragorn to pull him away.

Frodo took Merry's hand immediately, and Pippin was on the other side of him, wrapping his arm around his cousin's shoulder for support. Sam stood on the other side of Frodo. They were all grieved at the loss of Gandalf, and though he didn't like the orc-boy, he had not wished death upon him.

"Friend Shadow, may the hall of your Mother's people welcome you with open arms," Legolas said softly. _Galu, tithen pen,_" he finished, putting a hand to his chest and extending it outward. Then he came to his feet and stood with Merry.

Boromir, his face drawn and tired, bowed his head towards the still body. "You reminded me of my little brother in days that were happier and lighter. Eru be kind to you, and may your spirit rejoice to be at peace," he said stiffly, trying to keep his voice steady. He placed his hand on his chest and extended it outward as Legolas had done.

"The lad fought bravely and gave himself for another. There is no greater death and no greater honor. We did not see things from the same perspective, but I hope now he is resting in the halls of his mother's people," Gimli said, lifting his metal cap and nodding his head at the boy.

"I will keep your memory by remembering your kind, little warrior. Perhaps one day many of your kind can live in peace. May you rest well and be in peace forevermore. _Galu_," Aragorn said, bowing low to the young man that had given his life for him.

James picked a spot near the broken gates and began to dig into the ground, his sharp claws turning over the earth. He heard their boots on the ground as they walked away. He heard Merry's sobs of torment as he was led away. He heard Pippin's soft words of comfort to his grieving cousin. He heard the others sniffling for either Sceadu or Gandalf.

He toiled for a long time in the soil. He made the hole deep so that the wild animals could not get to the body. And when he was done he gently lowered the boy into the cold, unforgiving earth, rearranging his sword and light in his grasp. He stood at the edge of the grave as the sun started painting its evening colors across the sky. They would have reached Lórien by now, and would hopefully be safe in Galadriel's kingdom by the time he arrived. He thought of something to say as farewell, but only a song came to him. It was of a movie he had seen long ago, about the unlikely friendship between a widow's pet fox and an old man's hunting hound pup. He closed his eyes and began to push the soil back into the grave as he sang.

In the end of the song he sang as much for Gandalf as he did for Shadow, his deep voice wavering.

_We met, it seems, such a short time ago__  
__You looked at me - needing me so__  
__Yet from your sadness__  
__Our happiness grew__  
__And I found out I needed you too__  
__I remember how we used to play__  
__I recall those rainy days__  
__The fire's glow__  
__That kept us warm__  
__And now I find - we're both alone__  
__Goodbye may seem forever__  
__Farewell is like the end__  
__But in my heart is a memory__  
__And there you'll always be_

_Goodbye may seem forever__  
__Farewell is like the end__  
__But in my heart is a memory__  
__And there you'll always be_

He pushed the last handful into place and sighed. Then he called upon his magic and placed his claws over the grave. Where his hand rested grass once more bloomed on the grave, spreading and taking root until the mound was covered in green. There were also a few protection spells around the mound of earth. Even if there were orcs watching him bury the boy, they wouldn't be able to dig back into the earth and retrieve the body.

"Goodbye, Shadow," he said softly, before turning and heading the way the rest of the Fellowship had gone. He walked for many miles, his face cast down against the road. The evening waned into night time and the night was dark, but his dragon eyes were fine with this. Alone he walked along the road, thinking of the two members of their company lost needlessly. Gandalf should have stood aside…and Sceadu could have shouted a warning.

But the way Aragorn had treated him after the boy had lost himself to bloodlust was probably the reason he had not. Aragorn would not have listened to him. Even if he would have, shouting a warning would have come too late. Sceadu pushed Aragorn aside just as the arrow struck. Any delay would have been the true end of the King's line in Gondor. He sighed as he came to the line of trees.

Under the night the trees stood tall before him, arched over the road and stream that ran suddenly beneath their spreading boughs. In the dim light of the stars their stems were grey, and their quivering leaves a hint of fallow gold. Lothlórien lay before him.

And within Lothlórien was Galadriel. Yay…

* * *

"Here are eight that stand before me. Yet ten there were that set out from Rivendell. Has some change of counsel been ordered that we were not made aware of? Where is Gandalf the Grey? Where is the mysterious Dragon of Imladris that traveled with you?" Celeborn asked.

"There has been no change of counsel. Neither Gandalf nor James crossed the borders of Lothlórien, and I cannot see them unless they do. Both are hidden from me in their minds," Galadriel answered. Her voice was very melodious, but a bit deeper than most women's voices. She was richly alto in her intonations.

"Ten there were that left Imladris. And yet eleven entered the Mines of Moria. With our company we traveled with a boy of Rohan, orphaned and alone. He was mixed of orc blood, and we trusted him not to leave our presence with what he heard, so he traveled with us for a time. Gandalf led us through the darkness, and there he fell into shadow. He remained in Moria and did not escape," Aragorn said. He had heard a few exclamations of disgust at Sceadu's lineage, and then grief at Gandalf's fate. He saw Merry drawing himself up for a confrontation, and laid his hand on the curly head.

"These are evil tidings. The most evil that has been spoken here in long years full of grievous deeds. The loss of Gandalf is a stunning blow to the world. But that trusted representatives of the Free Peoples would travel with a half-orc is stunning as well," he said. The explosion from Merry was almost audible.

"He was but a boy, fair Lord!" he cried, surprising the Lord of Lórien. "Twelve summers old, but with a heart as kind and warm as summer! He was just a scared child, alone in the wrong place at the wrong time! He heard something he ought not to have, and we could not let him go, no matter what blood ran through his veins. He fought with us!" Merry said, tears staining his face again.

Grief and exhaustion was weighing heavily on Legolas' shoulders. Gandalf had been a great blow to them. But then the boy… Just a boy… All he had wanted was acceptance…nothing more than anyone… Legolas found his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, his own tears falling freely.

"Legolas Thranduilion! You would shed tears over an orc?" Celeborn asked in surprise. Legolas raised his face.

"He did not ask to be of orc blood. The sins of his father weighed heavily on him. I would that you could have met him. He would have changed your mind," Legolas said. "Already we had lost Gandalf. We were fleeing, lost in our grief. An orc bowman had Aragorn in his sight. The boy pushed him aside and took an arrow meant to tear us further apart. He laid down his life willingly to save another person. That is not what orcs do, my Lord. Orcs do not cry in their sleep or mourn their dead mothers, my Lord. Orcs do not fight with Men, and Dwarves, and Hobbits, and Elves, against other orcs and wargs and risk themselves to keep them safe, my Lord. Orcs do not love, my Lord. And so to answer your question: no, I would not shed tears over an Orc. But I would shed tears over a _child,_ my Lord," Legolas said, his eyes streaming the entire time.

"Two members of our company did we lose this day. And the third stayed behind to bury the body of the second," Aragorn said. "Naurlam should be only a few hours behind us. We did not fear to leave him alone. He's…well he's a dragon, and that's reason enough for him to be able to defend himself,"

"He surely didn't appear to be doing such a great job against the Balrog," Boromir muttered. There were exclamations of surprise.

"A Balrog? Of all elf-banes the most deadly, save the One who sits in the Dark Tower," Galadriel said softly.

"Tell us now the full tale!" Celeborn urged. Then Aragorn recounted all that had happened upon the pass of Caradhras, and in the days that followed; and he spoke of Balin and his book, and the fight in the Chamber of Mazarbul, and the fire, and the narrow bridge, and the coming of the Terror.

It was then that they were interrupted by a messenger.

"My Lord, my Lady, I beg apology for interrupting. But there…there is…a dragon here, demanding to see you," the messenger said, looking horrified.

"Send him in. He is expected and welcome. Although I would like to know how he got past our borders without being stopped or seen," Galadriel said, her brilliant eyes piercing the messenger. He shuddered.

"I know not, Lady, but I will find out," he said.

"It was magic,"

They turned to see James walk into the _talan _where they were holding their council. James walked up to Merry and rubbed his nose against the Hobbit's shoulder.

"It is done," he said, and Merry wrapped his arms around James' neck.

"Thank you, friend dragon," he said into James' large ear. He released the dragon and James raised his head, looking directly at Celeborn.

"Gonna cut me again?" he purred dangerously, sitting on his haunches and wrapping his tail around him. The air suddenly seemed charged with energy, and they all watched the two stare each other down. Celeborn studied the dragon's face, noting the long white scar that traveled from the top of his head, down between his eyes, and down onto his left cheek.

"Enough," Galadriel said. She looked at each of the Fellowship in turn, her brilliant eyes searching them. "I will not give you counsel, saying do this, or do that. For not in doing or contriving, nor in choosing between this course and another, can I avail; but only in knowing what was and is, and in part also what shall be. But this I will say to you: your Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while all the Company is true." Then she released them from her gaze.

"Do not be troubled. Tonight you shall sleep in peace," she said. "You are worn with sorrow and much toil. Even if your Quest did not concern us closely, you should have refuge in this City, until you were healed and refreshed. Now you shall rest, and we will not speak of your further road for a while." Then she turned to James, her blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "James Firetongue. We have unfinished business," she said. James turned to the others and gave a toothy dragon grin.

"Don't worry, friends. She won't bite me!" He joked. He received a few watery smiles as he stepped forward_._ When he looked towards the Lord and Lady, she was kneeling before him. He saw the starry brightness of Nenya on her hand as she reached out and placed it against the dark band that bound him. He felt the air charge and crackle with energy.

This time there was no foul wave of active black magic to assail her. This time there was no dreamscape. It was as if the collar was a long stagnant pool, filthy and foul but non-obstructive. She gathered her magic to her, breathing deeply, before releasing it in a mighty wave. There was a rush of heat in the black metal and it lit up spectacularly, before it cracked on each side and fell away in two pieces, clattering to the ground.

The magic faded and James opened his eyes, looking into the brilliant blue eyes of Galadriel. Then he looked down, one claw coming forward and prodding the collar as if he couldn't believe it was removed. His claws came to his neck, touching and grasping at the newly naked flesh. There was a ring of discolor where the metal had rested, scarring his scales.

"Change back, James. Show us your true form," Galadriel said, and stood from her kneeling position. He looked around nervously, before concentrating on his form.

His body melted from one form into the other. His black scales receded and were replaced by pale, smooth skin. His rough claws became hands, tipped in sharp, shiny black nails. His bent, powerful legs became long and muscled, his feet also tipped in black nails. His chest was broad and dusted with a fine layer of black hair. He had a muscular neck and lean, strong arms.

His face was narrow and handsomely shaped, with a square jawline and straight, narrow nose. His eyebrows were shapely and thick, black as pitch against his pale white face. His hair was wild as someone who had stepped out of a windstorm, taking impossible height and angles. His eyelashes were thick and black, pressed against his cheeks as his eyes were closed in concentration. But when his eyes fluttered open, it revealed the same golden eyes that had stared out of the face of the dragon. Bright and gleaming in the light of the room, the same thin, slitted pupil dilated and contracted. The scar across his face was now silvery in color, still visible against his skin but much more fetching.

He stood slowly, stretching out his wings and swishing his tail. The very ground under his feet felt different as a man. The soft skin of his feet bunched and his toes spread out across the rug, feeling the individual braids. He reached up and pressed a hand to his chin, tilting his head and cracking his neck with a satisfying ratchet of sound.

"Seventy years as a dragon…will give you _such _a crick in the _neck,_" he growled, before his thin, masculine lips spread into a wide grin, showing off his even white teeth. Large fangs jutted from his upper and lower teeth, and the upper fangs were touched on the side with a second set of fangs, making a double set fit for holding prey steady even in his human form.

"I think she missed a few spots," Sam stated, looking at the massive wings on James' back. The black of the scales melded into his skin where they touched, and his back was speckled with softer grey scales between his wings and across his lower back.

"This is my form. My _true _form," James replied, his wide grin being offset by his tail swishing happily, as though he were a dog.

"You know what? I'm just going to go ahead and say it. No one else seems to be wanting to," Pippin said, his face flushed red.

"What are you talking about?" James asked Pippin. Pippin scoffed aloud.

"I don't know if you realize this, but you are _extremely _naked."

* * *

Oh, well thanks for pointing that out, _Pippin. _

Now do you see why I cried? I'm going to issue a challenge. Put on a loop of the Shire Theme music and try to get through the scene with Sceadu. When the flutes start going, it's almost impossible to keep your eyes dry. Maybe it's because I'm made of soft and squishy woman flesh… I never intended Sceadu to make it into Lórien. He was there to pave the way for something else. I won't spoil it for you- but Phelan. Phelan Greyback. That's _totally not a hint or anything. _Scout's honor. (Pro-tip: I'm not a scout.)

And now James has his human form back. They lost a wizard and gained one back. Except he's naked. It would have been much less awesome if Gandalf had been naked. 0_0 Oh god, now I need to go scrape my brain out with a spoon. BRB.

AJdjfk owihrghj ejosl!

JK. I still have a brain…maybe. Anyway, there were many tears and sorrow writing this chapter. You should sheer me up with reviews. That _always _works.

:'( Pwease?


	13. God Help the Outcasts

Welcome back, boys and girls! It would seem that my alert feature didn't work so well last chapter. It didn't even let me know that I had posted. How the fuck am I supposed to know these things otherwise! _

Well….I cried. And I told you it was emotional. . And I heard that several of you cried too. I'm sorry. It was necessary. There were several other ways I saw that going down, but this way he got a rather heroic death, was remembered well, and wasn't tortured by anyone. God…killing characters is fucking _difficult._ Like, seriously. Also I realize I never got to deal with Sceadu speaking Orc. Oh well, we'll just bring it up another time. :)

Well, this is a rather transitional chapter. It's interesting, got some fun stuff, but no action. That comes next chapter, with Gally's mirror and Celeborn having a bitch fit when James keeps hitting on his wife. Lol jealous elves.

* * *

Chapter 13 – God Help the Outcasts

James looked down at himself, tilting his head slightly.

"I suppose I am. To be fair, though, Pippin, I've been naked the whole time," He said, grinning unashamedly.

"But, but-!" Pippin sputtered. Sam was looking pointedly at his feet, his delicate sensibilities having basically fried his brain from the sheer amount of awkwardness of having a naked Man in front of him. Boromir was looking everywhere but at James, and Aragorn had pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and was breathing deeply to keep calm. Gimli had a look of awkward fascination on his face. James noticed Gimli staring at him.

"Hey, _hey_! Eyes up here, Gimli. I know I'm a fucking amazing specimen of masculinity but I don't play on that side of the fence!" James said sternly, snapping his fingers a few times to catch the Dwarf's attention. Gimli's face flushed darkly and he looked away with a grunting sound.

"To be fair, Naurlam, we couldn't see anything delicate when you were in dragon form. And as…erm…Impressive as you are in this form, most people do not enjoy the sight of others' nudity," Legolas said reasonably.

Suddenly there was a crash and a shout just outside the door of the _talan, _and the soft patter of bare feet as an elfling launched himself into the room, silvery hair streaming unbound behind him and speckled with twigs and leaves. He shot between the members of the Fellowship and launched himself onto the lap of Galadriel, who caught him with the ease of long practice.

"_Nana_, guess what I did today? I climbed a tree nearly to the top before Meidh told me to come down because you would not be pleased and I might get in trouble and I didn't want to get in trouble because if I did I might have to clean my room and that's not fun to do because I don't like doing it and if I don't like doing it it's not fun and _Nana that man is naked!_" the boy exclaimed without taking a breath, his eyes flitting to each person as he talked before resting on James. His eyes were brilliantly blue and new like a fresh puddle, and he had the appearance of a six year old. "If he doesn't have to wear clothes then I don't want to either!" The elfling said, and had his tunic off before Galadriel could even raise her hands.

"Nay, my fiery little elfling. Keep your clothes on," she admonished gently, before tugging the tunic back over his head and folding him in her arms.

"Awh…" he breathed softly in disappointment. "But _he's _naked…" the boy whined. "And he has wings! Can I have wings, _Nana?_ If I had wings I would fly to the treetops and see the whole of Lórien from the sky!"

A maid suddenly exploded into the _talan, _gasping desperately for air.

"My Lord, my Lady! I am so sorry. One moment he was on a tree branch, and the next he's dumped a load of leaves into my cloak and taken off like a naughty little sparrow!" the maid gasped, turning her hood inside out and dumping a pile of leaves to the ground. She looked to where they landed, and noticed the pair of bare feet almost directly in front of them. Her eyes traveled upwards and she gasped when she saw James, stumbling backwards and nearly falling over Pippin before she skittered a few steps away from them. "Oh my! Again I apologize…I wasn't aware there were visitors to court!"

"I suppose I'm setting a bad example," James said. "I don't suppose anyone would lend me the use of their cloak?" James asked. One of the Galadrim guards whipped off his grey-green cloak and shoved it into James' hands. He could always get another one. James held the fabric in his hands for a moment, before wrapping it around his waist with one hand. With the other hand he snapped his fingers. There was a tingle of magic in the room before the fabric shifted and changed into a pair of loose trousers

The elfling in Galadriel's embrace giggled loudly.

"Nana! His clothes danced! Now he looks like a Galadrim!" he laughed.

"I could personally care less what I look like. I could be dressed like the Dork Lord himself and not give two farts," he said, causing the boy to laugh uproariously.

"Galadhîr," Galadriel said softly. The boy quieted immediately, smiling up at her before glancing back at the visitors. "I would have introduced you eventually, travelers. This is my son, Galadhîr, heir to the Golden Wood," she said proudly, running her hands through the boy's hair and removing some of the leaves and twigs.

"When I grow up, I'm gonna be a squirrel!" he announced proudly. The others exchanged amused glances. James gave him a thumb's up sign, grinning broadly.

"Way to have goals, kid!" he said. The boy frowned.

"I'm not a goat."

"I believe it is time for our weary travelers to rest. There will be more talking on the morrow," Galadriel said gently. She stood from her seat and swung the boy gracefully to perch on her hip as she walked between the members of the company. "Follow me and I will lead you to your sleeping place."

That night the Company slept on the ground, much to the satisfaction of the hobbits. The Elves spread for them a pavilion among the trees near the fountain, and in it they laid soft couches. James did not enter the pavilion, choosing instead to sleep under the canopy and enjoy his first night as a Man in over seventy years.

For a little while the travelers talked of their night before in the tree-tops, and of their day's journey, and of the Lord and Lady; for they had not yet the heart to look further back.

* * *

Merry awoke in a cold sweat, his breath coming in stuttering gasps as tears stained his face. This was the second night he had dreamt of Shadow. Seeing the Lady Galadriel with her son had made him ache fiercely for the Urukling that had captured his heart so very quickly. He wiped the tears and sweat from his face and pushed aside the soft covers that they had been provided with. He opened the flap to the luxurious shelter and walked into the brisk night air of Lothlórien.

James was still sitting up nearby, looking around and enjoying his newly returned human form. He saw the hobbit stumble from the tent and rustled his wings slightly. Merry looked over to see him wrapped in one of the blankets and sitting in a magnificently soft pile of _mellyrn _leaves.

"What brings you out into the forest proper?" James asked. Merry marveled once again at the dragon's new face, before his grief overwhelmed him again.

"I dreamt of Shadow," he said simply. James held out one edge of the blanket, revealing the soft new clothing that he had been provided once he had changed out of the strange, Transfigured trousers he had made for himself. Merry shuffled over to him and sat down next to James, allowing him to draw him close and wrap him in the warmth of the blanket.

"I won't give you empty words. It hurts now, and it will hurt for a long time. Loss like that never truly goes away," James said. He felt Merry's body jerk a few times as he began to cry again. "But I'm going to say something to you, Merry. Shadow would have wanted to know that you cared for him, and it is good to mourn the ones we love," he continued. "But Shadow wouldn't want you to mourn indefinitely. He wouldn't want you to live your life in darkness because he is gone."

"He didn't deserve to die," Merry whimpered. James nodded.

"No, he didn't. I heard Gandalf say something very wise to Frodo while we were still in Moria," James said, his thumb moving comfortingly across Merry's shoulder. "He said that there are many who die that deserve life, and many that live that deserve death. Can we give it to them? Is it our authority to do so?"

Merry shook his head. "No. Life is not ours to give or take,"

"Yet sometimes we do take it. All life belongs to Eru. It is his to give and take as he pleases. He gave Shadow life even under terrible circumstances. Even terrible things can cause good things to happen. And now Shadow is with Eru again. The one who sang the universe into existence put that young man here for a purpose. And when that purpose was fulfilled he gave him peace and rest that not even the Shire could have provided."

"But I would have tried."

"I know, Merry. And Eru knows your heart. He knows the love that you had. He knows the love that you still have. And while the hurt never truly goes away, we must not live in what has already happened." James added.

"What do you mean? Strider has said we must learn from what we do," Merry returned. James smiled and squeezed Merry's shoulder. Merry enjoyed hearing the dragon's new voice. It was deep and rich, comforting and lovely. His voice had a smoky quality to it, like the soft rasp of someone who had smoked much in their life. His words were soothing, too, and Merry found himself being buoyed by them.

"Aye. We must _learn _from it. We cannot change it, though. Nor can we judge what tomorrow holds. Yesterday is history, forever taken from our grasp. Tomorrow is a mystery. Even those with the gift of foresight can only see what _may_ be. But today, Merry, today is a gift: that's why we call it the present," James laughed. "Shadow was given the gift of eternal peace. But we must toil on for a while longer. What we can do is honor his memory and keep him alive in our hearts. We will mourn him and move on. We will not forget to live ourselves."

Merry nodded. "Yes, I know. If I had been the one to fall I would have wanted him to move on and be happy after a while. It hurts now, though,"

"And that's okay. Death is jarring. It is final and unforgiving. But to the well-organized mind, death is but the next adventure!"

Merry leaned in close to James and hugged him tightly.

"Thank you so much, Dragon…er…James…" Merry said, stumbling over what to call him.

"I'm still as much dragon as I am Man…and yet as much Man as I am dragon. You can still call me Dragon, or Naurlam. I don't mind," he laughed. Merry nodded, but made no move to extricate himself from James' grasp.

The two were silent for several moments. James half-expected the Hobbit to fall asleep against him, but the breaths never evened out. He was still stiff and unyielding under James' arm. James suddenly shifted, drawing Merry up onto his lap and holding him tightly. At first Merry struggled a bit, not at all liking the way he was manhandled. But when James gently shushed him he accepted the embrace as a friend to another. James tilted his head back and began to sing.

_God help the outcasts, hungry from birth_  
_Show them the mercy they don't find on Earth_  
_God help my people, we look to you still_  
_God help the outcasts or nobody will_

_Some ask for wealth, some ask for fame_  
_Some ask for Glory to shine on their name_  
_They ask for love they can posses_  
_Or ask for God and his angels to bless_

_I ask for nothing, I can get by_  
_But I know so many less lucky than I_  
_Please help me people, the poor and downtrod_  
_I thought we all were the Children of God?_

_God help the outcasts, Children of God._

Merry had gone to sleep by the time he finished the song, and he rearranged the blanket around them and leaned back into his comfy pile of leaves.

"Your voice is soothing."

He looked up to see Galadriel standing near him, smiling at the sight.

"It isn't up to par with the elves I've heard," he replied. Galadriel tilted her head slightly.

"It is merely different than ours. And different is not ugly," she pinned him with a knowing look and he flushed slightly. "You have wise words to speak, young one. Your presence is a great boon to this company. I cannot see how this story ends. I cannot see what your presence here has wrought. I cannot see many things. But this I know: My life was forfeit without your interference. My powers were fading and the glory of the elves was fading too. Since you severed the power of the Three from his hand there have been only a tiny amount of Elves leave these shores. And they are not in such a hurry to leave. This world no longer repels them, it is merely their wish to reunite with family long passed that drives them. You have increased the population of the elves, too. With so many staying here they have started their families. They have added to their families. They are strengthening their numbers again. While our people are not at the forefront of history any longer, we are no longer a dying memory, either. You have changed the course of history," Galadriel intoned gently. James smiled shyly at her.

"I was only doing what I could. He was really pissing me off with his posturing," He replied. She smiled in return.

"Your heart is open and warm, Master Dragon. And for someone so wronged it is amazing."

"That whole situation looked a shit ton of suspicious," James said, his dark brows knitting together slightly. "I was angry at them for a while, that I will admit…but honestly I got over it quickly. I was busy with other things," he finished.

"What things were enough to catch the great Dragon's eyes?" she asked. The question was innocent enough, but James could feel her seeking something deeper.

"My time away from Imladris was my own. I assure you I didn't shack up in Barad Dûr with Prickly McArmordick and plan the destruction of the world," James said steadily, his eyes gleaming in the light.

"Peace, friend of mine. I will admit curiosity over what you occupied yourself with, but I do not think that it was evil," she said, her intensely blue eyes soft. She inhaled deeply and let out a breath. "We will speak more on the morrow. I hope that you rest well here in Lothlórien." James' eyes looked more animal than Man in the dim light, the slitted pupil in stark contrast to the almost glowing golden iris.

"I hope so too."

* * *

She sat in the garden, her green cloak spread upon her knees as she patched and repaired rends that the fabric had taken. It was a heavy, sturdy cloak that she was very fond of; given to her by the relative of a Gondorian noble nearly twenty years ago in repayment for a deed she had done for the family. It had held up extremely well, and only needed to be patched every so often to keep the seams strong.

Gríma looked rather tired this morning. On his way back to his room the previous night he had found a rather large bat wreaking havoc in his room. And to add insult to injure she had unleashed the cricket sound in his room again, and she was rather sure that he had not slept but a little. He had almost fallen asleep when he had stood in court with the King.

She sighed through her nose when she thought about the king. Théoden King was rumored to have been a fierce and noble king in his day, but now he seemed more cloud than king. There was magic at work there. Draca could feel it, dark and pulsing like a shadowy heartbeat.

She ran her thumb over the newly repaired stitch and smiled to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards under the scarf she wore over her mouth. She didn't like showing the stiches to anyone. They were a mark of shame to her. Not a word had she spoken for ten years. She couldn't sing or whistle, either. She could hum, and did so often now that she was out from under the oppressive thumb of Saruman.

Ten years ago she had made her last visit to Mirkwood. She had stayed several months, trying to help Legolas and his father fortify their cavern palace with magic. She had finally decided to go back to her Master at Orthanc, having been gone from there for very many years in her travels. She had gone in search of her niche, so to speak. Gandalf was a Master of fire and energy, and Radagast held dominion over the woodland creatures and their ilk. It was rumored that Rómestámo was a master of foresight, with a particular connection to Irmo for his visions. And Morinehtar held fellowship with the trees as Radagast kept the counsel of beasts.

She was particularly good at healing. Her hands had often been called upon to nurture and heal. And honestly it didn't bother her as much as it might have in the old world. She had always tried to shake the traditional roles of women, and the role of a healing, nurturing wanderer didn't fit into her definition of a modern witch. But with age had come maturity and understanding. Healing was as natural to her as her own magic that aided it.

"Gríma seems awfully upset today,"

She looked up to see the tall, slender form of the king's niece, Éowyn, standing several paces in front of her, her blue eyes stormy as she glared at her. Draca merely hummed softly and nodded, putting her needle and thread away into the kit she kept them in.

"Théodred said that you couldn't talk. You are an odd creature," Éowyn said. Draca slipped the small sewing kit into her pocket and stood from where she had been reclining, throwing the heavy fabric over her shoulders with practiced ease. "You have the fluidity of elves, and the looks to match. What is someone like you doing with Gríma, the Wormtongue?"

Draca retrieved her staff from where it stood against the bench that she had been reclining on. She stood straight and stared steadily at Éowyn. Blue and gray clashed in a gaze of intensity. Éowyn was strong, but she hadn't the age or experience that Draca had, and eventually her gaze faltered a bit.

"I don't know what it is about you. You are entirely mysterious and feel dangerous…and yet…I do not fear you. I do not think you are here to cause trouble," the other woman said. A slender hand reached up slowly towards the scarf over Draca's face. Draca turned away from the curious fingers, but Éowyn would not be deterred. Her finger looped over the material and pulled it down, revealing the lower part of Draca's face. She gave a strangled gasp and all but fell backwards to get away from Draca.

Draca's face turned towards her again and pinned her with a powerful gaze. Her magic, newly restored to her, twinkled like stars in her eyes.

"You are going to destroy Gríma…" It wasn't a question. Draca's eyes flared again and her mouth curved upwards. It was a ghastly sight with the thick black stitches, but it was covered quickly by the scarf again. For several moments the women merely stared at each other. Then Draca showed a bit of her own foresight, and extended a hand towards Éowyn. The younger woman blinked rapidly, as if trying to rid herself of the sight of Draca's mouth, but then reached forward, taking her hand. "May the Grace of Eru be upon you, and the might of Béma in battle be yours, whatever you wage against Wormtongue."

Draca nodded firmly.

* * *

She found herself in Edoras proper, walking among the villagers and reminiscing on times passed. The last time she had been in the city of Edoras she had nearly been date-raped by Brinley, the palace guard. Now she was serving as Gríma's personal whore. Edoras really didn't have happy memories for her. And this time it wasn't even as beautiful. The buildings were worn and sad looking, and so were the people. Many of them were thin and looked so hungry. She knew the feeling of the angry pangs of hunger. She knew what it was for the stomach to howl with empty pain. She had nearly starved to death before she had come up with mixtures strong enough to keep her body going.

"Please, Miss, can you spare some coin? My son is sick and I cannot afford a healer," A soft voice to her right intoned. She turned to look upon a young mother, sitting on the roadside with her three year old son bundled up beside her. The boy's face was flushed with fever, and his eyes had dark rings underneath them. Draca knelt down on the roadside and placed her staff next to her. She made a gentle gesture towards the boy that simply said 'may I?' "I…I don't suppose it will hurt…" the young woman said.

Draca pressed her hand against the boy's forehead. He was burning up! He coughed suddenly, jarring the small body. It was a deep, wet, fearful sound coming from one so young. Draca gently unwound the blanket from around him and lowered her head, placing her ear against the boy's chest. She could hear his ragged breathing. This was going to require some obvious and quickly done magic.

She reached out with one hand and grabbed her staff and then placed her other hand on the boy's chest. She chanted slowly in her mind, drawing her magic to her and extending it through her fingers. A soft green glow appeared under her hand, warming her fingers and seeping into the little boy's skin. The color faded from his face, leaving him with only the rosy cheeks of youth. The dark circles faded drastically and would fade completely with good rest. He leaned his head back and gasped lightly, the sound free and clear of obstruction. Then he opened his eyes.

"Modor?" he asked. The woman cried out with joy and gathered him up, smothering his face with kisses and hugging him. The boy was tired and confused, but accepted the attention willingly.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" The woman said suddenly, turning back to Draca. Draca shook her head and smiled. "I kept trying to get enough money to take him to the healer. I sold herbs and begged and I tried everything, but every time I went to the healer, the price kept going up. You are Valar sent with such power! Thank you! How can I repay you?" the woman asked. Draca shook her head again, and tapped the hollow of her throat. "Oh, well, I'm glad that not being able to speak did not stop you from helping my son. Can I get you something in return?" she asked again. Draca merely gestured to the boy and smiled. Then she gestured towards the woman as well. "We will be very well. Thank you so much!"

The woman gathered up the small mat she had been sitting on and with her son in her arms she left, a great pep in her step. Draca frowned as she left.

Something smelled fishy in Rohan, and it wasn't the Isen River.

* * *

Dun dun dun! Vat a tvist! What's going on in Rohan? Will James refrain from setting Lothlórien on fire? Can Galadriel's son keep his clothes on long enough to be a proper fill-in character? Will Harry, Sirius, and Lucius appear in the next chapter? Am I desperate for reviews?

You may not know the answer to many of these questions, but I do. But the answer to the last one is yes. Yes I am desperate for your love and approval. I am a needy little bitch and I love your reviews. I love this story, too, but I _adore_ getting that little announcement that says I have a review! Make me happy, loves.

Pretty please? With half-orcs on top?

Ps - The song james sings is God Help the Outcasts from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And the song he sang last chapter was There You'll Always Be from The Fox and The Hound. I'm a sucker for musical movies. And James likes to sing. It's not like I can tell him _no. _He breathes _fire..._


	14. A Sword and a Branch

As promised, I have my trio of amazing in this chapter (Harry, Lucius and Sirius). They are in the beginning in fact. I do not, however, have Draca in this chapter. I ran out of room. This chapter sets up a few plot points and moves the story along. :) I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Chapter 14 – A Sword and A Branch

For days they had traveled. He could feel the pounding beat of their march in his teeth. He was tired, but it was a good tired. Sirius had taken to his dog form. He was a hit among the Rhûnic women, but the men were often found grumbling after the 'flashy wizard.' The men and women of Rhûn were comfortable with Alatar and Pollando. They had a great amount of respect for them. In fact, most of them had worked some kind of blue fabric into their armor.

And what splendid armor it was. For the Generals they had shiny metal armor, fitted and well made. They had capes of dyed linen, a magnificent blue color that was hard to catch in natural dyes. The Captains had bright blue cloth arm bands and shiny metal chest pieces. The rest of their armor was thick leather. The foot soldiers and archers were outfitted in leather armor, but it was no less majestic. Each piece was delicately tooled with the symbol of Rhûn, a four pointed star with a circle in the center, and then in the center of each circle there were many tribal and family symbols. The soldiers wore kerchiefs of blue around their necks. The female soldiers, with their hair slightly longer than the freshly shorn men's locks, kept it braided tightly and tied with ribbons of blue. Even their standard was the symbol of Rhûn on a blue background.

One of the Princes of the capital of Rhûn was traveling with them. There were seven members of the royal family. The King and Queen, two Princes and three Princesses. The royal family had been under the Dark Lord's thumb for a long time. It was a difficult situation to be in. There were very few allies for Rhûn, so defying Mordor really wasn't feasible for them.

Prince Amir was a respected General in his own right. Along with his brilliant cape of blue he wore a pointed crown of gold and carried a long golden dagger at his side, the hilt shaped like a serpent. Amir traveled in the main pack with the wizards, and found the new wizards absolutely fascinating. The people of Rhûn were dark of skin and hair, and they all found Lucius' blonde hair rather exotic. Even Harry's brilliant green eyes caught their attention. Their eye colors were muted browns and green, even the occasional muddy blue, but nothing so vivid as Sirius' sapphire gaze or Lucius' sultry silver eyes.

"Your son is half dragon? How is this possible? Do your kind mate with dragons? Are you married to a dragon?" Amir asked, his youthful voice vibrant with curiosity. Harry smiled.

"No. Though she has the spirit like one, my wife is as human as I am. James was transformed by foul, horrible magic. It was a painful and it changed the way he acted. It took us a long time to help James control the animal urges that he got. Why, I'll never forget the time he chased the neighbor's cat clean up a tree because the poor creature tried to mark our yard as its territory," Harry said with a sad laugh. "But he's a good lad. Fiercely loyal. I love him so much and I miss him."

Orion put his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"We'll find James. We'll get them all and we'll get them home," he said softly. Harry nodded, but said nothing.

"Prince Amir! Look!" Shouted a scout ahead of them. They all looked up into the sky where the scout pointed. A dark shape was growing larger against the bright blue desert sky.

"How long until it reaches us?" he asked the scout. The man tilted his head slightly.

"Less than twenty minutes. It's moving incredibly fast. I don't think it's a bird," the scout replied.

"That's because it's not. It's one of Sauron's foul wraiths," Alatar said, his green eyes glinting in the sun. He turned to the three wizards. "Even one of the wraiths is impossible to defeat. We can only hope to beat it back. Eluhîn has dealt with the minions of Mordor. I would suggest taking cover. Not because I doubt your abilities, but because this is a foe unlike any you may have faced," he said to them. Harry sneered.

"Never. That black-hearted devil will not stand between me and my son. I will destroy it," he said vehemently, his hair crackling with static magic. Lucius stepped up beside Harry, his wand in his hand and magic swirling at his feet. Orion just glared grimly up at the black spectre as his father morphed back into his human form.

"It will not stand between me and Rohan," Lucius added. Sirius shrugged and stepped to the other side of Harry.

"I just want to kick something's ass…" he said.

* * *

Hathalmyrn flew as if the whip of his master was on his heels. He was already facing a torment worse than death for his part in losing the Blue wizards. But to be fair he really had thought them dead. It was Murazor that had taken out the eye of one of them. And Khamûl had brought down their fortress around their ears. The full wrath of Sauron had been on them in that endeavor, and he had been pleased with his servants when they had returned. Two of the five Wizards dead. One was a mushroom-gobbling fool. There were only two that were now a threat to him….and then one became his ally.

Now the numbers were back up. For the one wizard he had gained as an ally he regained the two Blue Wizards as foes. And now the three wizards travelling with them, and the one they had taken on as an apprentice. That was six wizards just there, not counting the Grey wizard and the brown wizard.

When he was upon the group he stayed high, scoping out his prey and shrieking intermittently. The shrieks were designed to draw fear into the hearts of men. And whatever power those new wizards held, they were still Men. He saw one of them falter, dark haired and pale, before another seemed to falter under his onslaught as well. Others of their company drew in on themselves, weeping and calling out the names of loved ones.

He could see the Blue ones near the front of the company, their faces grim beneath their large brimmed hats. They held their staves close, the stones on the ends glowing fiercely even in the bright sun. It hurt to be out in such brightness, but he would rather face the bright smile of Anor than go back to his master empty handed.

He dove. With a terrifying shriek he grasped one of the new wizards about the waist, pulling him into the air and high into the sky. The few arrows aimed at him skittered past harmlessly, and then they dare not aim for fear of hitting the wizard in his grasp. His hair was yellow and he smelled of the Firstborn.

* * *

"Lucius!" Harry cried, trying to grasp the man's leg before he had been pulled too far from their grasp.

Lucius struggled mightily in the beast's grasp. This foul corpse reminded him awfully of the Dementors; shadow and fear and death was in his aura. Scenes from his life were flashing before his eyes, terrible times. He gritted his teeth and raised his wand.

He focused on the day he had married Narcissa. He focused on the day that Draco was born. He focused on the first time Draco had called him 'papa.' He focused on the birth of Scorpius and then Draca. He focused on the first steps of little Draca, ignored by her father and coached by her brother.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" he snarled. The tip of the wand exploded with magic. His own Patronus charm took the form of a swan. It had always galled him a bit, but honestly it fit well. And now he wasn't complaining. The large bird burst from the tip of his wand and batted at the wraith with its wings. It dropped him in surprise, and Lucius quickly Apparated.

The Death Eater Apparation he had learned when he served under the Dark Lord came in handy at the moment. His entire body became as smoke, carefully corkscrewing towards the ground to reduce his momentum. When he was a few feet above the ground he changed back into his solid form, landing neatly on his feet.

"Impressive," Sirius said weakly. The presence of the wraith was affecting him horribly. His years in Azkaban were dancing across his mind and it was quite alarming. His whole body trembled violently and he felt ill.

Harry was faring no better. His face was pale and pasty. A sob tore itself from his throat.

_Take Harry and run!_

_Freak!_

_Kill the spare!_

_James! Where is James?_

The wraith was not the same as a Dementor, though, and slashed through the white energy with a pale sword, dissolving the apparition. Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew a small case. He had hoped not to use this item, it being so rare. He had…borrowed…a certain sword before his departure from his own world, and figured that now was just as good a time as any to use it. He opened the case and withdrew the miniaturized sword and scabbard. A flick of his wand made the sword full sized, and he pulled the blade from its sheath with a soft hiss of metal on dragonhide. The feel of the blade in his hand gave him a strange strength, and he looked upwards at the wraith.

"Come, you foul servant of Darkness! Face me in battle! I challenge you!" Harry yelled. The wraith floated languidly where it was for several moments, before it dropped like a stone. It landed solidly on two feet, displacing a spray of sand under its boots.

"Foolish mortal. Thy brash words will be the last thing that passes thy lips, save thy life's blood," the wraith hissed.

"Oooh, we're _so scared _of the jerkoff flitting around like a little black butterfly," Sirius snapped. He shook his head, trying to clear the presence of the wraith's dark power.

"Peace, wizardling. Thou hast foolishness that will cost thee in thy turn," was the hissed reply. Harry stepped forward, the Sword of Gryffindor glittering in the light.

"Why don't you stop talking out of your arse and make a move?" Harry asked. The wraith tilted its shrouded head.

"Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood," the wraith replied. Harry's eyebrows shot up. The damn thing just insulted him…it just _insulted him._

"I do desire we be better strangers," Harry said in return, whirling the sword expertly. It sang metallically through the warm air, the rubies in the hilt glittering like freshly drawn blood.

"Thou art the son and heir of a mongrel bitch," the wraith hissed. Harry just laughed.

"You cheeky dick waffle."

They faced each other in front of the host of Rhûnic men and women. Though there were nearly four hundred men and women there, none of them at the front wanted to face one of the Nine. The wraith, though, continued to regard Harry.

"I know thy face. Though I have seen it on another," the wraith teased, and would have grinned if it had the mouth to do so.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Harry growled.

"Tell me: art thou the father of the Dragon Wizard?"

* * *

James groaned.

He had found the ultimate paradise. While exploring the city of Caras Galadhon, he had stumbled across a day spa. While the clientele were primarily female, occasionally a male would come to them for a bit of pampering. James had no coinage to pay for the services, but he instead bartered with a few of his own scales. They fell off all the time, and he usually collected them to make pendants and jewelry out of back home. People went gaga over dragon scale items, and it seemed no different here.

Currently he had a soothing mixture of herbs and smooth mud spread over his face. His hair was plastered back with deep, rich conditioning oil, and the ellyth were currently massaging him with lightly fragranced body oil. He was clad only in a pair of loose shorts, and he was quite aware of the appreciative stares and giggles he was getting.

"Male elves do not have body hair, sweet dragon. We are quite fascinated with your man-pelt," one said as she gingerly rubbed his abdomen. James grinned under his moisturizing mask as she ran her fingers over the dusting of hair across his chest.

"My dears, explore all you like. I'm sure there are other differences between Men and Elves," he said with a wink. The elf tittered shyly. A bolder elf looked at his shorts appreciatively.

"Aye, to that we both agree. It's as likening a twig to a branch," she purred. She saw the gleam in his eyes.

"And would the pretty lady like to sit on the branch?" he rumbled suggestively. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I wouldn't want to damage such a lovely tree," she returned evenly. James' lips parted slightly, showing his teeth as the others watched in fascination.

"I can assure you that this branch is quite…thick. It is sturdy enough to support you for…extended lengths of time," he growled. The elleth looked at her companions.

"Leave," she all but snarled. They giggled and scattered. "Come, we will rinse you," she said to him, tugging him to his feet. She led him to a back room to a private bath, the steamy water fragrant with flower petals. The tub was large enough for several people, but the elf shut the door and latched it firmly.

"In the water," she stated firmly, tugging at her own clothes.

"Hold on just a moment, sparkles," James said suddenly, rounding on her. She looked up, surprised when he grabbed her hands and pulled her close. Their noses were almost touching and she could smell the light smokiness of his breath. "Let's get one thing straight: You do not order me. I am not submissive in any way, shape or form. Attempting to order me around like a floppy-tailed dog will result in me quite cheerfully taking you over my knee and spanking you until that impertinent little bottom agrees that I am in charge. Now if you're into that sort of thing just let me know, love, and I'll oblige quite willingly," he said, his voice deep and smooth. The she-elf shuddered with liquid desire. The facial mud he was wearing didn't make him look at all less dangerous. He held her gaze for several moments, before she looked away obligingly. There were few creatures that could outstare an elf, and apparently he was one of them.

"My name is James," he said suddenly, loosening the grip on her hands and whirling her around to unbutton her dress.

"Excuse me?" she asked, gasping when he tugged the buttons out of place and shoved the fabric down her arms and to the floor. She wore no under shift, and was bared to him in that one movement. He turned her around, his eyes glowing in the lamp light as he devoured the sight of her.

"I just wanted to let you know what you're going to be screaming in a few moments."

* * *

"Has anyone seen the dragon?" Pippin asked, a plate piled high with fruit sitting in front of him. Merry looked up from steadily eating his own bowl of fruit.

"I believe he said something about exploring the city," Merry said, biting into a most excellent apple.

Boromir shuddered. "There's no telling what he's doing in the city. He'll probably catch something on fire before we leave," the Man muttered.

"I don't believe that's very fair of you, Son of Gondor,"

They turned to see the Lady Galadriel standing at the door to their housing, her face and hair as radiant as ever. Gimli got a rather dreamy look on his face as he gazed upon her. A small head suddenly poked out from behind her leg, revealing the bright blue gaze of her son, GaladhÎr.

"_Nana_, can I sit with the new people while you go to your mirror? I want to know them better," he asked sweetly, an innocent gaze on his face.

"If they are not averse to your company, little one. Frodo Baggins, I wish to speak with you," Galadriel said, her gaze falling on the dark-haired Hobbit. Frodo swallowed hard and stood to his feet, dusting off his worn trousers.

"Don't worry now, Mr. Frodo. I bet she just wants to give you some advice," Sam said softly to his Master. Frodo looked back at his faithful friend and smiled.

"Thank you, my friend," he replied, before walking shyly up to the elf Lady. Galadhîr emerged from behind his mother, grinning brightly. He was a little taller than Frodo, and his hair was the silvery blond of his father, with his mother's bright eyes.

"You're just going to look in the mirror, Mr. Frodo Hobbit sir," Galadhîr smiled. "It's very interesting!"

"Well thank you for putting my fears to rest. I had feared your mother may roast me alive," Frodo teased. Galadhîr's grin only broadened.

"She'll only do that if you dump red grape juice over the court advisors. And even then it's only your bum she roasts," he laughed.

"Galadhîr, peace," Galadriel said softly. The boy laughed beautifully as his mother led the dark haired Hobbit away to her private garden. His bright eyes sought the gaze of each of the Fellowship. He caught sight of Legolas in the corner, examining his bow to make sure it was in working order.

"Brother from the North!" he squealed, pattering along the soft carpet of leaves to launch himself at the other elf. Legolas set aside his bow just in time to be assaulted by an armful of laughing elfling. "I've never met an elf of the Mirkwood realm! Tell me about the forest. Are there really spiders as big as Elves there? Have you ever fought orcs? Is it true that your Ada and my Nana got into a fight? You can shoot a bow? If you made a bow big enough could you shoot an elf like an arrow? Are spiders friendly? Can orcs read? Have you ever had a conversation with an orc?" the boy rattled. Legolas' eyes grew wide and he looked to the others for some kind of support. Merry and Pippin both had cheeks full of food and were trying to keep from snickering.

Sam had a fond sort of look on his face as he gazed at the child. Boromir was laughing silently, holding his sides and clearly thinking of times gone by. Legolas took a deep breath.

"Yes there are spiders as big as elves in the forest of Mirkwood. I have fought orcs. There was a misunderstanding between them many centuries ago. I have been shooting a bow since I was fifty years old. I do not think anyone could fire a bow big enough to shoot an elf. Spiders are definitely _not _friendly. I do not know if orcs can read. I once knew a half-orc who had very good conversations," Legolas replied evenly. Galadhîr's mouth dropped open.

"You answer questions better than Ada. And Nana just floats me to the library and tells me to study! I like you," he said, and wrapped gangly arms around Legolas' neck. Legolas laughed and patted the elfling's back.

"I like you, too."

* * *

James walked through the forest floor in a daze, his body aching in a most pleased way. The she-elf, whose name he discovered was Lalorn, had proved quite fiery and pleasurable. He had a few scratches across his back to prove it. She had also proved interested in some more…carnal adventures and had let him skillfully spank her into frenzy. Several times they had coupled and each time they had enjoyed explosive completions.

"I just saw one of Lórien's maidens limping in the other direction. I should hope that you are not corrupting the populace of ellyth?"

He turned his head to see the Lord and Lady of the Wood sitting on a delicately carved bench in a copse of winter blooms. Galadriel looked tired, her normally bright eyes a little duller and her glow a little less pronounced. Though James didn't know it, her meeting with Frodo at the magic mirror had been quite draining.

"Not the populace. Just one. Why, you jealous, sweet cheeks? I always have time for one more," he said with a wink. Celeborn bristled immediately.

"You dare speak to another man's wife in such a way? How impertinent you are!" he said vehemently. James looked him over, grinning impishly.

"As…pretty as you are, I don't swing that way, Celly. You shouldn't be so prickly…it's not my fault your wife is smoking hot," James replied. Celeborn stood from the bench, but Galadriel's hand found his and stayed him.

"He deals with his problems with irreverence and flippancy. His grief is manifesting in sarcasm. He means not what he says. Do you think for a moment that if I thought he was serious about that offer that I would hesitate in striking down a brazen little dragon?" she asked her husband. He deflated a bit.

"Nay, my love, I do not feel that you would dishonor me or yourself. But there is something altogether infuriating about the boy," he said, turning back to where James was standing, a languid grin on his face.

"Aw…Celly. Your wisdom in the realm is renowned. Why do you withhold wisdom from me? What is it about me that threatens you?" James teased.

"Keep your forked tongue behind your sharp teeth, beast, else you may get a matching scar on the other side of your face," Celeborn said. James' teasing smile vanished and the very air around them changed. He spread his wings slightly and showed his sharp teeth in a sneer.

"The first one was free, _elf._ Try it again and I will shove a pike up your arse and spit roast you," he growled deeply. Fire licked at his lips for a few moments, giving him a hellish appearance before the flames died. He gave a barking snarl of displeasure and took to the nearest tree, climbing with every bit as much grace and agility as an elf before getting high enough to jump across the branches. The two elven rulers watched him leave, before Celeborn sat again beside his wife.

"He never deserved that scar," Galadriel said quietly, threading her fingers with Celeborn's.

"I saw you…kneeling before that animal…bleeding…and I reacted quite violently. I love you, Alatáriel, with all that I am. The thought that I might lose you undid me. And now that the creature can speak…he has too much flagrancy for his own good," Celeborn sighed.

Galadriel rested her head against his shoulder, humming gently under her breath as she began to trace nonsensical patterns across his knee with her free hand.

"I am yours. Until the world is unmade my soul and yours are tied. But that impudent boy has done much good. He severed the Three from Sauron's grasp. He is escorting the One to its doom. How many of our people have started their families since the Severing? Galadhîr is not the only elfling born in the last sixty years. He has many his age. The elves are beginning to flourish again, and it's all because of one extremely powerful, extremely mouthy wizard. We owe him _everything,_" she said. Celeborn reached out and captured her tracing hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing her long, thin fingers.

"I will make an effort to reach out to him, if it pleases you. I do not wish anyone to think the Lord of Lórien is ungrateful for anything," he said. She smiled at him, her aura flaring back to its normal brightness.

"Thank you, my love. Now, let us retire for the day. I believe Galadhîr has found his Northern kinsman and will be kept busy for a few hours," she said, a slow grin forming on her fair face. Celeborn raised a silver eyebrow.

"And what are you suggesting, my fair Lady?" he asked.

"I say we do not let our visitors and maidens have _all _the fun there is to be had!" she said, untangling herself from him suddenly and springing to her feet. She practically danced out of his reaching hands.

"Is it a chase you want, then?" he asked, his grey eyes glimmering. She grinned at him and almost bounced on the balls of her feet.

"Catch me if you can, husband!" she teased, and fled into the woods on light feet, no sound betraying her steps. Celeborn grinned ferally.

"The chase is on!"

* * *

Aww, ancient immortal being love. D'aww…..I mean..er…._Ew gross old-ass elf sex…_ DON'T JUDGE ME.

Well James got lucky during this chapter. Celeborn, too! I like Galadhîr….and he kept his clothes on…..this chapter. :D Also Shakespearean insults. The best kind. Lolololololol…(My favorite was Harry's last one.)

I hope you enjoyed this my loves. All of my love and tenderness went into this. }:) (Be afraid. Be very afraid.)

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	15. Different Kinds of Conflict

Chapter fifteen up and out! We're getting ever closer to Amon Hen. I finally decided what I'm going to do. And _boy _do I throw some wrenches in the traditional gear shaft. Whoo boy! I thought of it and then literally paused, gave myself a high-five and had to walk away from myself because it was so amazingly different. What can I say? I do it my way.

Well the other half of the conflict with the Nazgûl is here. There is also some funny moments with Galadhîr, a few awesome magicky moments with James, and some unexpectedness. Just enjoy. And if you enjoy it well enough, I would love to hear feedback. I know the story is still kinda early on. Only fifteen chapters in. But if you're a lurker and you've never reviewed this story or another, it's only a few words and it makes an author feel amazing. :)

High ho, Silver! (I'm not drunk, I swear.)

* * *

Chapter 15 – Different Kinds of Conflict

"James? You've seen James?" Harry asked. His sword faltered for only a moment, but the wraith took advantage of Harry's lapse of attention.

He charged without warning.

On predator's feet the wraith shot forward, pale sword raised to strike. The sword came down in a singing arc, striking the Sword of Gryffindor in a shower of black sparks. The wraith pulled back and swung again, aiming for Harry's unprotected side. Harry whirled the sword in his grasp, holding it tip down and deflecting the blow. Each time their swords clashed a spray of black flashes fell from the blades.

Harry swung the blade heavily and the wraith jumped cleanly over the blade, kicking out with metal shod feet and catching Harry in the face with a brutal kick. Blood exploded from Harry's nose and mouth. His head came down with a jerk and he glared at the wraith.

"You bastard!" Harry hissed, his voice muffled with blood. A few yards away Sirius was moving back and forth on nervous feet.

"Should we interfere? I mean…we're wizards…" he said, looking at the Blue wizards. Alatar reached up and stroked his beard.

"He's doing quite well. There are few who can engage the Nazgûl and keep their heads – literally- for more than a few moments," he said. Sirius looked at him incredulously.

"That seems a damn good reason to interfere!" he said loudly.

"Calm down, wizardling," Pollando said soothingly. Harry and the Nazgûl were still whirling about each other. Harry's lower face was stained red with blood, and it was starting to stain his neck and collar. The wraith kicked out at Harry, catching him in the gut and knocking him off of his feet for backwards a way before he came down on his back on the hot sand. Harry saw the wraith coming in for a finishing jab and rolled left to avoid the ice colored blade.

"Intervention!" Sirius yelled, shooting a blue spell towards the Nazgûl. It avoided the spell with ease, but the distraction allowed Harry to get to his feet, staggering from exertion and blood loss. The wraith swung its pale blade and Harry tried again to dodge, but the blade stuck in his side. The wound was not fatally deep, but it was certainly enough for Harry to cry out and fall.

The wraith shrieked and started in for a killing blow, but was completely caught off guard by Sirius bodily tackling it. Sirius regretted it as soon as he made contact. Everywhere unprotected flesh touched the wraith's robe was searing agony. His hands and a patch of his neck turned red within moments. The Nazgûl threw him off and zipped to its feet in time to catch a clout from Alatar's staff at the back of his head. The wraith curled in slightly and found the tip of Pollando's staff right in its gut.

"Foolish mortals," the wraith hissed, before a bright light seared into its corpse-like body. With a shriek the wraith was blown back. For a moment it hovered above them, its body bobbing weakly, before it turned at fled.

Alatar and Pollando converged on Harry at the same time, while Orion rushed to his father. Lucius looked between them, before shuffling slowly to where Sirius lay in the sand. His hands were held out in front of him and he was moaning.

"Dad! What were you thinking you brave, foolish man?" Orion cried. The flesh on Sirius' hands was burned badly, and his head was tilted to the side because of the burn across his neck. Several Rhûnic healers pushed their way to the front. A willowy woman knelt next to Sirius, a healer's satchel in her hands, while three men with the Rhûnic healer's kilts dropped next to Harry.

"You are quite lucky he wasn't using a Morgul blade," Pollando said gruffly, leaning on his staff while one healer cleaned and disinfected the wound. Harry looked up at the other wizard, his face twisted in pain.

"I don't feel very- oh _Merlin's saggy balls _did you just pour acid on me? What the bloody, buggering _fuck _was that?" he yelped, turning to the healer. The man raised dark eyebrows at Harry's language.

"If you want to play with Nazgûl and get sliced, then you should be prepared to face the consequences. Even if it wasn't a Black blade, there is still an incredible amount of Darkness in the sword of a Nazgûl. Even a cut could prove fatal if left un-cleansed. I simply used a distillate of Vervain to dispel the darkness," the healer said matter-of-factly. Harry merely turned his head away as the healer dabbed a sweet-smelling unguent over the wound. Anyone looking at his face would have called it a pout, but Harry would have told them very succinctly that seasoned Aurors do not pout. He winced as the bandages were applied.

An agonized yell made him look up to see the female healer applying what appeared to be the same acid-…er…Vervain mixture to Sirius' hands and neck before smearing the burned skin with a brightly colored salve and wrapping them. Harry frowned at the look of sheer torment on Sirius' face.

"Goddamn folk remedies."

* * *

Celeborn walked on silent feet through the leaf-carpeted forest, towards the clearing that he had heard the dragon was using. Using for what he did not know, but he planned on finding out very soon. He came to the edge of the clearing and paused, watching the scene in awe.

James sat in the center of the clearing, his legs crossed and his arms stretched out in front of him. There was a small campfire going, built into a small makeshift fire pit. James twitched a hand and the fire rose up out of the pit, burning merrily in the air. He brought his hands together slowly and the fire shrank, becoming naught but a tiny, brightly burning ember. Then he spread his hands wide, and the fire grew alarmingly quickly. He crooked his fingers and the fire began to take shape. It twisted and shifted, the flames glowing and flashing, until it was the shape of a dragon. The replica flame-beast opened its mouth and a few stray embers fell.

James flexed his fingers and the shape changed again, becoming a small bird of some sort. Its fiery wings fluttered, spreading cinders, before James gently lowered the fire back into the pit. When the flame was safely burning on the wood again he released his hands, reaching up to wipe a layer of sweat from his face.

"Impressive," Celeborn said, stepping into the clearing. James looked up, and quirked a black eyebrow.

"What are you doing here, Celly?" he asked. Celeborn's eye twitched.

"I wished to apologize for my insensitive-,"

"Now hold on there, elfy. Let's be honest: you didn't come to apologize on your own volition. Your wifey made you come to me, didn't she?" he asked boldly. Celeborn's face was impassive. "Oh God…it's true! Your wife has your nutsack as a coin purse, doesn't she? What a hoot!" James fell over from laughing, holding his sides.

"You did not deserve the barb about the scar on your face, but everything else that I said was meant fully," Celeborn stated loudly. James stopped laughing, but was grinning impishly as he got to his feet.

"Let's be perfectly clear: I hate you. I hate you so much. Your wife, however, smacked the Dark Lord in the face with a tree branch for me and got rid of that goddamn collar. She is a nice lady. You're a dick. You don't want to apologize to me and I don't want to hear it. So let's do this: We tell her that we had a great conversation with each other, vomited our feelings into a bucket, held each other's dicks and cried, and then you decided from the bottom of your pert little elven arse that you would provide me with a weapon suitable for a dragon warrior. Sound fair?" James asked, his tail swishing languidly behind him. Celeborn's upper lip twitched, as if he were about to sneer at James.

"Why do you want a weapon? Isn't your tongue viperous enough?" he asked. James grinned.

"Aye, when I wish it my saliva is venomous. My bite is also wickedly painful. But there is nothing quite so exhilarating as fighting with a blade. Do you not agree?" James asked. Celeborn regarded him.

"You are a shrewd beast," he remarked. James barked a laugh.

"I will take that as a compliment from you. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go see a man about a wallaby," he said genially, turning and walking from the clearing. Celeborn stayed where he was, a confused look on his face.

"What in the name of Valinor is a wallaby?"

* * *

He stalked on hunter's feet, biting his lip to make sure he made no sound. His breathing was low and even, just like he had been taught. He would not alert his prey. He crept ever closer, an involuntary grin splitting his face before he paused, took a breath, and pounced.

Aragorn was rudely awakened by someone sitting quite solidly on his chest. He reached for Andúril only to find it wasn't by his side. His eyes popped open, and he looked up into the innocently smiling face of the elfling, Galadhîr. His bright blue eyes were sparkling like pools of water under moonlight.

"Is there something I can help you with, young Lord?" Aragorn asked patiently.

"Nana says that if you marry Arwen you will be my nephew," he said, putting his hands on Aragorn's chest and leaning forward. "Brother Legolas says that you are a good man. He says you are a good fighter and will protect Arwen from all the bad things," he said, his smile fading a bit and a serious look coming to his face. Aragorn looked up into his face soberly.

"I give you my word that I will protect Arwen to the best of my abilities. She will not come to harm whilest I draw breath," Aragorn said seriously. Then the elfling smiled again.

"Good. Because Nana said if something happened to her and you were at fault, she would take great pleasure in emasculating and disemboweling you before setting your wasted carcass on fire and burying the ashes in an orc's corpse," the boy said cheerfully. Aragorn's face drained of color quite rapidly. "I'm not sure what half of those words mean, but I think it would hurt."

"Aye…" Aragorn croaked. "It would hurt a lot." Galadhîr giggled and then swiftly moved from his sitting position on Aragorn's chest.

"Well then I hope it's not necessary!" he said, before running on bare feet across the tent and doing the same treatment to Gimli. Aragorn heard a surprised explosion of breath.

"By my beard and axe! We're under attack!" the dwarf yelled, and received a giggle.

"Nay, friend Gimli! Tis only I, Galadhîr, waking you up so that the sun can kiss your face! Although I don't know if the sun likes to kiss beards! We'll have to ask her!" Galadhîr laughed. He could hear Gimli grunting as the others started to come awake from the Dwarf's loud exclamation.

"You remind me of a rabbit, youngling, always hopping to and fro," Gimli said, looking up at the elfling on his chest. Galadhîr's eyes crinkled at the sides a little because he was grinning so broadly.

"When I grow up I want to carry a battle-axe, too!" he proclaimed. The Dwarf looked strangely touched.

"But I thought you wanted to be a squirrel?" he asked. Galadhîr thought for a moment before bouncing happily on the Dwarf's chest.

"Why can't a squirrel carry a battle-axe?" he laughed. A wing emerged from a nearby pile of blankets, and James' head came up, his black hair sticking out in horrifying angles.

"That sounds awkward and amazing," he said sleepily, before yawning widely. Galadhîr's enthusiasm was amusing as he turned his attention back on Gimli.

"Master Gimli?" he asked. The Dwarf grunted concomitantly. "I heard someone say not nice things about you the other day. So I put a mouse in her dress," he said. Gimli sniffed lightly.

"That's one of the nicest things anyone's done for me in a long time, elfling," he said gruffly. Galadhîr leaned forward and hugged Gimli, laughing as the Dwarf's beard tickled his nose.

"Gimli? Will you braid my hair like a Dwarf's? I wanna be the first elf to have Dwarf braids!" he exclaimed. Gimli looked rather serious as the elf puffed up.

"A Dwarf's braids are an important affair. In order to wear Dwarven braids you must have a Dwarven mindset," he said. Galadhîr nodded, and forced the smile off of his face. He cleared his throat and tried to look severe. It looked more like he was pouting, and Aragorn had to consciously not snigger.

"I will be like a Dwarf. I will be like the stone of the earth: unmovable and unbreakable," he said, trying to make his voice deep. Gimli's beard twitched.

"And then you must make the Dwarven pledge:

_Earth we moved and stones we broke_  
_This the joy of Durin's folk_  
_The Elves go West and Men move North_  
_But ever deeper goes this Dwarf!_

_As the hammer lifts and falls_  
_As the bellows blow their call_  
_As the mountain stands alone_  
_So shall I be as the stone!_

Gimli said the pledge slowly as Galadhîr nodded along. Then the elfling solemnly put his hand to his chest and repeated the pledge word-for-word. Gimli laughed at the end, jostling the light elf on his chest.

"Well, well! I suppose me may make a proper Dwarf of one of you yet!" he laughed. "Don't forget to eat and be strong, or you'll never get to carry that battle-axe. They are heavy and require great strength to lift," Gimli said sagely. Galadhîr looked upset.

"I forgot breakfast! I'll go eat now!" he said, and was gone from Gimli's chest and flitting out the door before the dwarf could breathe another breath.

"Gracious me…like a little hummingbird," Gimli muttered. He heard Legolas' laughter and saw the fair head poke into their tent.

"He is now running through the trees of Lórien crying that if he doesn't eat breakfast, he'll never be a proper Dwarf. I daresay I've never seen any of the First Born look so baffled," he laughed.

"I'm just glad he didn't ask to be a dragon. Our pledge is a good deal more difficult," James interjected, stretching in his nest of blankets. Gimli sat up and straightened his beard a bit with his fingers.

"And how many dragons have you been gallivanting about with to have your own pledges?" he asked suspiciously. James quirked an eyebrow.

"There were plenty of dragons where I come from. They are much larger than I am, but most of them accept me in either form. The she-dragons treat me rather like a hatchling. They think I'm adorable and clean me with their tongues. It is both endearing and horrifying," James said fondly, a wistful look on his face. Gimli shuddered.

James pushed aside his blankets and stood up, stretching again. His wings spread out fully, his wingspan rather impressive. Even in the large pavilion his wings almost stretched from end to end. Then his wings folded against his back and he slipped on his boots before stepping over still sleeping Hobbits to reach the entrance to the tent. Legolas still stood there, regarding him with interest. But James grinned mischievously and turned back to Gimli.

"Dragons here, however, are rather hard to win the trust of," he said, before walking out of the tent while whistling cheerfully. He got a few yards away from the tent and snickered.

"Suckers."

* * *

"You want to what?" he asked, looking baffled at the she-elf in front of him.

"I wish to sail back," she said softly, clasping her hands in front of her to wring her fingers nervously. She was aware of the gravity of her request. Never before had it been asked.

"You wish to…Well, I'll have to talk…that is to say…I've never….you wish to sail back?" he stuttered. She flushed lightly at having lowered such a being to stuttering like a fool. It had taken so very long to finally get an audience with him, and now she was sure he would toss her out on her ear.

"I just…I cannot explain it, my Lord. I want to go back. My soul yearns for the Eastern shore," she said softly, looking up into his face. He released a breath and reached up to scratch at his beard-covered chin.

"I admire the courage and resilience it takes to even come with this request. It is not common- no, that's not correct…never has it been done before. I…am intrigued. I know the goings on of the lands East better than most. I know of great change happening there, change that the First Born already here should not know. The fact that you even have such a feeling indicates a great foresight in you," he said, quirking a white eyebrow.

"Your praise honors me beyond words," she said respectfully.

"As well it should. Do you know how long it took them to find me? When I heard that one of the Eldar wanted council with me, I was not sure what to expect. That you stand before me and ask so boldly and yet so meekly….I will grant your wish," he said suddenly. She looked up, her eyes sparkling. "This place was never supposed to be a prison. For anyone. We do not wish for you to stay when your heart is elsewhere. We will take my vessel, the fastest in Arda," he said.

"Oh thank you! Thank you Lord Ulmo!" she gushed, falling to her knees and bowing low. He laughed deeply, a sound like the waves crashing against the rocks, mighty and full of wild power.

"Make yourself ready, child. We will leave in when Varda's lights are in the sky," he said in dismissal. A great sense of excitement came over her, and she practically radiated bliss. The rather gruff Lord of the Seas looked at the glowing Eldar child and could not suppress a grin.

"You have no idea what this means to me," she said suddenly, her smile still firmly in place while tears filled her eyes. His expression became tender. He knelt down on level with her and reached forward, large hands resting on her cheeks. When her tears spilled his thumbs wiped them away.

"Do not weep, child of Ilúvatar. Your words were spoken and heard. Your request is granted. Go and prepare yourself. The journey will be swift enough," he said softly. She nodded wordlessly and he withdrew his hands. He stood first and extended a hand, helping her to her feet. Her smile was still firmly in place.

"Until next we meet, my Lord," she said, bowing in farewell. She turned and began walking from the chamber.

"Until next we meet, little one," he murmured.

* * *

What the f**k could that possibly be? I dunno, you'll have to tune in next time to find out.

Will Harry learn not to screw around with dark magical demons? Will Celeborn hold up his end of the bargain with James? Will Boromir be a total spaz at Amon Hen? Where's Waldo? Who is that masked man?

I'm not sure, but if I were you I'd start asking questions and taking notes.

Seriously though, I love reviews.

For real.


	16. Farewell to Lórien

:'( I'm getting less reviews. Is it the way the story is progressing? Is it too slow? I didn't want to move too quickly because I have such detailed side stories that I like to get in as well. Is the plot moving along cohesively? This is why I like reviews so much. They let me know if everything's going well, and if there's anything I need to fix or work on, or if it's just a steaming pile of dragon doo doo. I hope to have a bit more feedback in this chapter.

They do end up leaving Lórien in this chapter. :)

* * *

Chapter 16 – Farewell to Lórien

"Make sure your gear's together, men. We leave today," Aragorn said, double checking his own pack to make sure everything was there.

"And what about Hobbits? Should we get our gear together, too?" Pippin asked cheekily. Aragorn gave him a certain look that promised trouble, and Pippin quailed with a sigh. "I s'pose it does, then," he said, and began gathering a few of his clothing things that had gotten strewn while they had a place to stay.

"And elves, then, Estel? Are they included?" Legolas asked. He laughed when Aragorn flashed him an annoyed glance.

"Not that I'd complain, but is it your plan to leave your Dwarf behind? And the dragon lad too? He never quite unpacked while he was here, so he doesn't have anything to do. There's no telling what he's off doing," Gimli said. Boromir grunted.

"Or who," he added as he neatly packed things away.

"I meant 'men' in a general 'we are all equals here' sort of way. But now that everyone's had their go at me today, are we ready to be adults here?" Aragorn said testily.

"Oh God, what crawled up your arse and died?" James asked, throwing the flap of the tent aside as he entered. "That's no way to talk to your mates. Don't make me take you over my knee, young man," James teased. Aragorn's face was rather stormy as he slung his pack over his shoulder and pushed past James to exit the tent. James was actually surprised. "I meant no harm…"

"Estel is not himself today. I fear the weight of the burden he is carrying now that Gandalf has gone is heavy on his mind this day," Legolas said softly. But instead of looking understanding, James looked rather angry. His lips pulled off of his sharp teeth in a snarl and he exited the tent roughly. "Oh no," Legolas said, quickly following.

James approached the retreating form of Aragorn swiftly and grabbed hold of the pack on his shoulder. Aragorn tried to pull it away, but James' grip was strong. He let go of the pack and turned to James.

"So what is the matter, Aragorn?" James asked, his eyes catching the morning light between the leaves and flashing. Aragorn regarded the man in front of him.

"I only wish everyone would consider the gravity of the situation we are in, instead of being flippant," Aragorn said. Legolas had come up beside James, and a stern look appeared on his face.

"You find us flippant? Then you must be blind and deaf, for we are anything but," Legolas said.

"Gandalf is dead, Aragorn. He's dead and there's nothing we can do about it. So everyone looks to _you_ for leadership. No one else here could get everyone to unite under one banner. If I tried to take over, I would always have Boromir and Gimli's hatred. If Legolas tried to take over, Gimli would turn mutinous. The hobbits don't love Boromir like they do you. They care for him, but it was_ you _that led them to safety from Bree. It is _you _that is our leader, it is _you _that is our guide, and it is _you _that is the King," James said vehemently. His eyes were intense as he held Aragorn's grey gaze, before James fell to one knee and put his hand across his chest. "There was a time when I rescued a venom-sick child from the woods and cared for him. You have grown much since that time. No one would have followed you to a watering hole then. But now, I would follow you into the mouth of Hell," James said, bowing his head. Aragorn sighed, but then a small smile came to his face.

"Well good, because that is where we are headed."

* * *

"That has to be the gaudiest thing I have ever seen. And I'm a wizard," James said, looking at the swan boat that Celeborn, Galadriel and Galadhîr were sitting in. Galadriel was strumming a harp, and they could hear her fair alto voice over the rippling of the river and the sounds of the wood.

_I sing of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grow:_  
_Of wind I sing, a wind there comes and in the branches blows._  
_Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam is on the Sea,_  
_And by the strand of Ilmarin there grows a golden Tree._  
_Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar does shine,_  
_In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion._  
_There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,_  
_While here beyond the Sundering Seas have quailed the Elven fears._  
_O Lorien! Spring comes anew, a bright and golden Day;_  
_Though leaves have fallen in the stream, the River flows this way._  
_O Lorien! My home I've made upon this Hither Shore_  
_And in a newer crown have twined the golden elanor._  
_If within this melody, of ships I now must sing,_  
_It was a ship that bore away my darling Silver Queen._

_Time is as a river with its current swift and strong_  
_And those who wander thither find the years keep passing on._  
_Though the river parts us and the waters take you far_  
_My heart will yearn to meet with you again beneath the stars._  
_So journey ever on no matter how your story ends_  
_And keep alive your memories of fair Lothlorien!_

"That was pretty, Nana!" They heard the high voice of the Heir of the Wood say.

Aragorn stayed the boat that he, Frodo and Sam were riding as the Swan-ship drew alongside. Merry, Pippin and Boromir were in another boat, pulling up beside them. James, Gimli and Legolas were in the last boat, with James feeling ever so uncomfortable on the water.

The Lady greeted them. She was dressed all in white, save a crown of golden blossoms braided and resting on her head. Celeborn was also dressed in white, his hair unbound and hanging loosely over his shoulders. Galadhîr was dressed in white trousers with a white tunic and silver vest, his feet bare as always. He waved cheerfully at the Fellowship.

"We have come to bid our last farewell," she said, "and to speed you with blessings from our land."

"Though you have been our guests," said Celeborn, "you have not yet eaten with us, and we bid you, therefore, to a parting feast, here between the flowing waters that will bear you far from Lórien."

The Swan passed on slowly to the dock, and they turned their boats and followed it. There upon the green grass the parting feast was held. The food was delicious and they all spoke among themselves. Galadhîr had attached himself to Gimli, which was hilarious to behold. The Dwarf had finally made good on his promise and had braided the elfling's hair in the Dwarven style. The braids were thicker than the fine, elven counterparts, and Gimli even had a bead to spare for the boy to wear where the two braids met behind his head.

"This is marked with the symbol of my family. Should you ever find yourself in Erebor, show them this bead and you will be welcomed as Dwarf-friend," he said. Galadhîr was in awe.

Pippin looked over as James picked at many of the foods available to eat. James looked rather distracted as he put food into his mouth automatically.

"Everything all right, Naurlam?" Pippin asked. James looked up, and put an automatic smile on his face.

"Everything's just fine, Pip. I'm just thinking about the next leg of our journey. Hoping everything turns out well. Hoping there's no more balrogs!" James joked. Pippin gave a watery smile, but then his head tilted slightly.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask but I never got around to it: What were you saying to the Balrog in Moria?" he asked. The question caused all conversation to die quickly. James flushed a bit.

"Nothing much, Pippin," he deferred.

"It is a fair question, dragon. None could understand what passed between you and the demon," Boromir said, frowning. "It was as though you were speaking the sounds grinding stones make," he added.

"I was merely…uh…trying to get the Balrog to release us," James said.

"You tried to reason with a Balrog?" Celeborn asked, his tone a mixture of horror and awe.

"Well, I was a bit surprised to be able to understand the Balrog. But honestly, I was just trying to get her to let us go…" James said uncomfortably. Aragorn choked on a piece of cheese.

"_Her?_" he exclaimed. "The Balrog was a _she?_" he asked incredulously. Boromir scoffed aloud.

"If the demon was a woman I'm surprised he wasn't trying to bed it," he said in jest. James' face colored brilliantly. Boromir looked angry suddenly. "By Eru's grace, you _were_ trying to bed the beast! For the love of the Free Peoples and everything that is right in this world…have you no _honor_? The beast killed Gandalf!" Boromir snapped. James exploded.

"Gandalf needn't have died! I had everything under control! I was merely trying to distract the Balrog to let us _all_ get out of there. But he comes strolling on the bridge with his 'I'm a wizard so my dick is bigger than yours' routine, and pissed the Balrog off! If he would have backed the _fuck _off, he wouldn't have fallen. Even still I tried to reach him. You were all too far away. He was just out of my reach!" James snarled, his hair crackling with angry magic. Then his anger fled, and sorrow filled his eyes. "I would that I had fallen in Gandalf's stead."

"Gandalf would not have braved the wrath of the Orcs of Moria to stay behind and bury Sceadu. Gandalf would not have sung to me in the night when my dreams were dark and filled with sorrow. Gandalf was a great wizard and an irreplaceable ally, but you, James, are a good friend," Merry said. He was sitting beside James and so he reached over and grabbed the larger hand, holding it between two small hands. "Do not doubt our love for you."

"It was empty promises to the Balrog. I told her that if she would let us all pass, then I would return to her and give her my heart. She actually seemed rather lonely…." James said wistfully. "I never meant for Gandalf to interfere."

"I believe it was better for this to come about before you left the shores of Lórien then when you were in the wilds, unable to reconcile. Fate works mysteriously. You have all been brought together with a purpose. The Valar work to ensure Eru's will is carried out, but sometimes even they are not made privy to all of His designs. But take heart, for our Creator does not wish to harm us. We must trust in His will and have hope!" Galadriel said gently.

Then she rose from the grass, and taking a cup from one of her maidens she filled it with white mead and gave it to Celeborn.

"Now it is time to drink the cup of farewell," she said. "Drink, Lord of the Galadhrim! And let not your heart be sad. Even as winter bares the branches of the forest, then the spring arrives and life is renewed. Our winter is harsh, but we must hope for the spring." She looked at each of them as she brought the cup to them. Once they had taken part in drinking from the cup, she brought to them each gifts from the Lord and Lady of Lórien.

To Aragorn she gave a sheath for his sword, decorated with twining golden leaves and silver flowers, with elven runes spelled out in gemstones and the name of the sword emblazoned in Tengwar across the sheath. He also received an eagle brooch that held a green stone that flashed like the sun between the leaves. Boromir received a braided belt of gold, finely made and fitting of his high station. Merry and Pippin received similar belts, wrought in silver and the fastens of delicately wrought golden flowers. To Sam she gave a carved box set with the Tengwar rune of 'G' and inlaid with vines of gold and silver. The box contained soil from her garden that would make his own garden like a miniature Lothlórien in its splendor.

Legolas was given a bow such as the Galadhrim used, longer and stouter than the bows of Mirkwood, and strung with a string of elf-hair. With it went a quiver of arrows. Gimli waxed poetic when asked what gift he would have of the Lady. In the end she gave him three of her golden hairs to have set in crystal upon his return to his land. James snickered good-naturedly at the Dwarf and received a heavy-handed punch in the side.

"Ow my kidney!" James yelped, rubbing his side. Aragorn made a face.

"Your kidneys aren't even there," he said. James stuck his tongue out at Aragorn.

"It felt like he hit my kidney," he grumbled. He heard Galadhîr giggle and flashed the lad a sharp smile.

"And for you, brave dragon. For the warrior who has stood toe-to-toe with the Dark Lord and walked away a victor. I have a gift for you, too," she said gently. She withdrew a sheathed knife, long slightly curved from a maiden's hand. The sheath was black leather, tooled and decorated with a protective silver tip and the Tengwar rune for 'J' on the leather. She withdrew the knife with a small hiss of leather on steel, and James made an appreciative noise. The blade itself was black and shiny, notched on the flat of the blade with a few wicked teeth near the base. The handle was black leather with a polished silver knob at the end.

"If that blade were a woman I'd make love to it," James said, nearly drooling at the sight of the wickedly elegant blade. Galadriel merely smiled and sheathed the blade before presenting it to James. He attached it to his right side, grinning like a loon.

"And there is a gesture from the Lord of the Galadhrim that must be given," Celeborn said. James actually looked rather surprised.

"I actually thought you would renege on that," James said. Celeborn sniffed lightly.

"I may not like you, Dragon, but I certainly do not go back on my agreements, clearly stated or not. Besides, I believe you'll rather enjoy this," he said, looking mischievous. He walked back to where the swan ship was moored and brought out a black sheath, similar to the knife sheath he had been given. It was the same black leather, but this one was decorated with a long slender dragon that ran the length of the sheath on both sides. At its mouth were glittering rubies and topaz that made a sparkling fire at the opening. The tip of the sheath was protected by pointed silver, almost a weapon itself. The handle was long enough for a two-handed grip, but it was clearly a one-handed sword, curved slightly like his dagger.

Celeborn came back and stood in front of James, presenting the sheathed sword flat in his palms. James took the blade reverently, eager to see what the elf-lord had done. He examined the sheath, admiring the detail in the silver dragon inlay. The handle was leather, tooled in the shape of dragon scales with a blunt silver pommel that was highly polished. He grasped the handle and pulled the sword with a hiss deeper and longer than the dagger had made. The whole company made appreciative noises.

The blade was silver with an inlay of black steel near the back of the blade, shaped with curves in such a way that it made the sharpest end of the blade look like it was on fire. The tip was incredibly sharp on the curved side, with a shorter, but no less deadly hone to the other side. The guard of the sword was pointed like a set of fangs. Elven runes lined the entire length of the blade. James whistled.

"I think I may have underestimated you, elfy. You sure deliver on your promises," he purred, swinging the blade experimentally. It sang through the air. "How well would this thing handle fire?" he asked. Celeborn smiled smugly.

"The runes make it impossible to melt in the hottest forge. It would take the fires of Mount Doom to melt the blade. I etched the runes myself," he said. James nodded.

"Good work," he said. He grinned and held the sword in front of him, and with the buzzing feeling of magic in the air, the entire blade caught alight, burning with a vengeful fire. He swung it again, and the metal sang and hissed with fire. Then the fire retreated, and James sheathed the sword.

"Impressive, is it not?" Celeborn said proudly. James attached the sheath to his belt.

"I am damn impressed, Lord Celeborn," James said, and bowed to the elf. Celeborn inhaled sharply.

"You used my name. My title," he said in surprise. James' eyes glittered.

"I can be polite when the situation calls for it," he said. "And now, if everyone is done, I have a few gifts of my own to give," he announced. To each of the fellowship he gave a pendant of a dragon scale on a leather cord, each etched with the Tengwar rune for their name on one side, and a rune of protection on the other. Since he had already given Aragorn a scale long ago, he instead gave him a boot knife carved from a dragon scale and laid into a wood and silver grip with a convenient clipping sheath that would attach to any set of boots.

To Galadhîr he gave a cloak pin made of carved dragon scale, a rune of protection etched into the scale and inlaid with silver and surrounded by a stylized outline of fire. To Celeborn he gave a dragon scale knife like Aragorn's, with a rune of good fortune etched into the silver tip of the handle. And to Galadriel he gave a smaller scale than the rest, set into a silver cuff bracelet and surrounded by clear gems that sparkled with iridescent light.

"That is crystallized magic. They are beautiful, unbreakable, and I've found that they bring good luck to those who hold them. They take a rather long time to make, and I'm one of the the only ones who has ever been able to make them so clear. Thank you for all that you have done for me," he said humbly, bowing low in front of the elf-lady. She bent forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"What you have done for all of Arda is beyond words. Beyond anything that we could have asked for. I am proud to be your ally. I am glad you are on our side," she said. "Go in peace, all of you. May Eru's grace be with you, and Elbereth light your way even in the darkest night," she said sincerely.

The Company took their places in the boats as before. Crying farewell, the Elves of Lórien with long grey poles thrust them out into the flowing stream, and the rippling waters bore them slowly away.

James turned around before they were out of the hearing range, watching as the royal family of the wood began to get back into their swan boat.

"Lady Galadriel!" James called loudly. Galadriel's head lifted, looking to where the boats were moving away. "Enjoy the kid on the way!" he called.

"What did you say? How can you know?" Celeborn called, one foot poised to enter the boat.

"I can smell it!" James called, cackling in the wind. The next bit happened almost too fast for any of the other elves to react. Celeborn's foot missed its target in his shock at James' proclamation, and he fell spectacularly into the water.

"Celeborn, no!" Galadriel cried out.

"Look Nana! Ada's swimming! I want to swim too!"

"Galad-,"

_Splash!_

"_By the stars_, Galadhîr! You come up here and put those leggings back on right now!"

"Lady, do not reach so far-!"

_Splash!_

James was laughing uproariously in his boat, his laughs coming so hard that he nearly prostrated himself across Legolas' lap.

"Oh my God, yes! They will _never_ forget my arrival and departure in Lothlórien! And I didn't even have to set anyone on fire!" James was nearly shrieking with his mirth, until Legolas pushed him off of him. James curled up in the bottom of the boat, and it took several minutes for him to catch his breath. He sat up, wiping his eyes.

"Is the Lady truly expecting another child?" Legolas asked when James had gotten control of himself. James mock scowled.

"Expecting is such an awkward term. It implies that it could be something else. 'We're _expecting_ a baby, but it _could be_ a velociraptor. Personally I'd like the dinosaur. It'd be more awesome," James said, before he caught the horrified look of the two in the boat with him. "_What_?"

Suddenly the River swept round a bend, and the banks rose upon both sides, and the light of Lórien was hidden. The travelers now turned their faces to the journey; the sun was before them, and their eyes were dazzled, many with tears. Gimli wept openly.

"I have looked the last upon that which was fairest," he said to Legolas his companion. "Henceforth I will call nothing fair, unless it be her gift." He put his hand to his breast where he had hidden the hairs Galadriel had given him. James groaned.

"Oh god. Are you going to moan the whole time? Because honestly it's _really creepy_ that you liked her so much," James said. Gimli growled low at the half breed.

"Keep talking and you'll taste my axe. You may have gotten an impressive blade from the Lord Celeborn, but it won't beat an expertly wielded axe in sheer might," he said gruffly. James grinned.

"Oh Gimli, I love you too!" James gushed sarcastically. "I could just _eat you up_!" Gimli grunted.

They had a relatively quiet next few days, with only Frodo worrying about spotting Gollum in the water. James was getting cooped up on the boats to the point that he literally jumped off of it three days in, taking to the sky for a few hours each day to stretch his wings. He flew low behind the boat, grinning to himself as the hobbits watched him in open awe. His wing had healed nicely in Lórien and he was glad to taste the wind again. His father might have been a genius on broomstick, but James could outfly any Quidditch player with his wings alone. It took great muscle control to keep his body straight as he flew. His body would dip lightly on the upswing of his wing, but it was a soothing rhythm for him, and a comforting back noise for the hobbits, who took great pleasure in watching the movements of his wings. He even saw Legolas and Boromir watching curiously at moments.

James did not fly by night, exhaustion finally letting him sleep soundly even in the elven boat. On the night of the fifth day from their sojourn out of the Golden Wood, they quickly were approaching the rapids of Sarn Gebir. They checked their boats, turning to the shore.

James suddenly heard the twang of several bowstrings, and the light splash of most of them striking the water. One smote Frodo, but was denied its target by his hidden chainmail. Another lodged itself into the boat with Merry and Pippin and Boromir. James bared his teeth as an arrow whistled by his sensitive ear. He heard Gimli swear colorfully in Khuzdul, before his thick finger pointed in the direction of the shoreline.

"Orcs!"

* * *

James is fun. I like him. I also like Galadhîr. He didn't keep his pants on this chapter. _ Galadriel's song is an alteration of her song directly from the book. In the book she was all depressing and shit because the elves were fading and Lothlorien was going to lose her to the West and the power of Nenya was fading and the wood would be all dead and crap. Well, since I severed the Three Elven rings from Sauron's taint, the rings do not fade. Galadriel did not take the One Ring from Frodo, which gives her the option to go to the west if she chooses, but she won't for a while. Because _fuck_ all that depressing shit, that's why. I think a certain amount of angst can be good reading, but honestly I just felt heartbroken through half of the LoTR books. I mean _have mercy._..anyway...off on a tangent...

I concentrated on the Fellowship in this chapter, because I felt it was important. I believe I might flip back to Rohan next chapter, or maybe try to give you a few hints on who the mystery sailor is. Hint: starfire341: You're thinking about the boat going the wrong way. Reverse that trajectory and you might have an easier time guessing. Also, I just wanted to say I love your reviews. I just ask those questions in jest and you actually answer them. It makes me squee. Like…literally. I see your reviews and squeeze my phone in a death grip and squeak. I….I work in a book store….people _stare. _*Please don't stop*

Lolololololdesperationlololol.

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	17. At a Crossroad

:D My face is happy this chapter! So many great reviews! I am so glad that you all are enjoying the story and the way that it is going. I'm glad it's moving at an acceptable pace. It took me seventeen chapters to get to a place that it took Master Tolkien an entire book to do. To be fair, though, this was the second part of Book one, which is only ten chapters. :3 And I had a shit ton of side stories to put in. He didn't have half-uruks and Redlings.

Now please don't stop reviewing just because I didn't wax maudlin in this A/N. I look forward to seeing your reactions to the scene between Boromir and Frodo. I always hated that such a complete madness took Boromir, who was pretty much demonized. His motives were honorable, mostly, but he went about things the wrong way. I also hope this chapter highlights more of the burden that Frodo actually carried.

I will give your choice of a cameo of a Rider of Rohan(Come on, it's me, it will be awesome), an Uruk of Isengard, or a Half-Orc of the Redling village to the first person to guess who is sailing back. You can name them and give them a personality and I will try to write it out to the best of my abilities. (We'll work out all of the details in private messages or email.) I gave _a lot _of hints in this chapter, if you think about them. :)

* * *

Chapter 17 – At a Crossroad

They hunched into the boats, trying to offer as little of a target as possible. It was dark out, but the night-eyes of the Orcs should have been able to pick them out. Legolas reckoned silently that it must have been a combination of their elven grey boats and the cloaks that they had been given before leaving the Golden Wood that hid them from the eyes of the Archers of Mordor.

"God they suck," James whispered dramatically. Legolas' bright grey eyes found his, the fair eyebrows drawn worriedly.

"You would rather their skill be better? Then you would have us all looking like pin cushions," Legolas said softly.

Stroke by stroke they labored on. In the darkness it was hard to be sure that they were indeed moving at all; but slowly the swirl of the water grew less, and the shadow of the eastern bank faded back into the night. At last they had reached the middle of the stream again and had driven their boats back some distance above the jutting rocks. Then half turning they thrust them with all their strength towards the western shore. Under the shadow of bushes leaning out over the water they halted and drew breath.

Legolas laid down his paddle and took up the bow that he had brought from Lórien. Then he sprang ashore and climbed a few paces up the bank. Stringing the bow and fitting an arrow he turned, peering back over the River into the darkness. Across the water there were shrill cries, but nothing could be seen. James had his face inclined into the air, his nostrils flared as he scented for anyone close.

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel,_" Legolas breathed in shock, looking up. They followed his gaze and saw a great black shape, both like and unlike a cloud because it was swifter, rise up into the sky. It traveled towards the company, blotting out all light as it approached, and they could tell as it approached that it was a great winged shape. James felt his hackles rise, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as a deep, angry growl started in his chest. In his peripheral vision he saw Frodo sink lower into the boat, his hand on his shoulder as he trembled. Sam put his hand on Frodo's opposite shoulder.

"Shall I rise up to meet it?" he asked gruffly, his voice more snarl than anything. But suddenly the great bow of Lórien sang in the darkness, and shrilly went an arrow from Legolas' bow. There was a croaking scream from almost above them and the dark shape fell from the sky, landing in the gloom of the eastern shore. The shrill voices opposite them cried and wailed on the opposite shore, but then fell quiet. There were no more arrows or voices again that night.

They ventured a bit further down the stream with Aragorn at the head, before they found a small shallow bay, hidden behind trees and shrubbery that would give them a good point of hiding. They did not light a fire, but lay huddled in the boats. They made quiet conversation for a bit, discussing the events, before they all fell into uneasy sleep.

* * *

She stood on the deck of the boat, eyes closed as the night wind blew her hair from her face. She could hear the bustle of his deck hands, busy doing things that needed to be done for the evening. She was unfamiliar with sailing, and so she knew not what each chore was purposed to, but she knew that each person had a job to do, and seemed to do it with gladness and speed.

"Is your voyage comfortable so far?"

She turned to see the Lord of the Waters standing behind her. His hair and beard were dark, streaked with white like the ocean streaked with foam. His eyes were pale green, like the seafoam, and his skin was deeply tanned. He wore a tunic of finely made silver scale mail, bound with a broad belt of leather. He wore leather leggings tucked into thick leather boots. His hands were unadorned with glove or gauntlet, but he wore leather bracers against his forearms. His upper arms were bare, and on his left bicep was his own personal mark, inked darkly into the skin.

"Aye, my Lord. It is much more enjoyable than the first trip," she said in return. He stood beside her as the wind kissed his dark hair. She felt a broad hand on her shoulder and she turned to the Vala beside her.

"We approach swiftly. Where do you wish for me to leave you? As long as there is water I can take you. I know your heart is in-,"

"I will go there soon enough," she said quickly, causing Ulmo's eyebrow to quirk. "I feel there is something else first. Take me where I can be useful. I have learned much healing and herb lore. Let me get feet for these shores again before I face anyone I knew," she added. He nodded to her.

"Very well. Gondor, and especially Minas Tirith, is besieged by the forces of Mordor, holding themselves only by their own might." He saw her swallow hard and felt her trembling under his hand. He stroked her silky blonde head in a fatherly manner. "I will not make you go where you fear to tread. Rohan is in shambles. The King's mind is hidden under a great shadow, and the people feel the burden of his illness. They have much need," he suggested. Her eyes lowered to the swiftly passing waves as she thought, before her gaze turned upon him.

"I will go to Rohan," she said decisively. "I will go there first."

"Are you sure you do not wish to visit somewhere familiar first?" Ulmo asked gently, his pale green eyes regarding her. She inhaled deeply, looking up at the twinkling of Varda's stars.

"I feel that he has things he must do first. He will come to me," she said softly, tears staining her face. Ulmo exhaled loudly, his eyes on the stars. Varda was being generous with their light tonight, just as he'd asked her to. The Firstborn were always calmer when the stars were visible.

"I will do this for you. I believe, despite the recent hubbub there, that Edoras will be the safest place for you. We will need to go below deck when we Hop," he said.

"Hop?" she asked, reaching up to wipe away her tears.

"This is how I travel from water to water in Arda, especially when the waters do not connect. I could Hop from the Isen to the Sea of Rhûn if I so chose," he said.

"I am awed by the power in this vessel," she said softly. He gave her a broad grin.

"I will go under when Anor touches the Eastern sky," he said. "I know the Eldar do not require much sleep, but I have a feeling that when we touch Rohirric soil, you will not rest well for a time," he said. She nodded.

"Thank you, my Lord," she replied, bowing to him before setting out toward her cabin. Ulmo watched her retreat, a sad look on his face. Mortal or Immortal, it didn't matter: women always made things more difficult than they needed to be. A shooting star suddenly streaked across the sky, and he could have sworn that two stars glowed like eyes.

"Stuff it, Varda! No one asked your opinion!"

* * *

"_Shit!_ Those are some gi-fucking-normous rocks!" James exclaimed, his eyes wide. Aragorn scoffed loudly.

"They are not _rocks._ These are the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!" he said grandly, his eyes sparkling as he beheld his ancestors, carved forever in the great stone. James rolled his eyes.

"God, I hope he gets this much of a boner for Arwen or she's going to have problems with him," James muttered. Legolas frowned at him.

"Do not speak so of the Evenstar," he said. James sighed loudly and flopped back against the boat, rocking it roughly and making Gimli curse him in the Dwarven language.

"You're going to have to translate that one day, Gim. They sound so very colorful," James said boredly.

"I can assure you it was a slight against your lineage and a suggestion of where to put some nicely sized rocks," Gimli growled. James snickered.

"Such a jokester," he replied, leaning over the side of the boat slightly to look into the water. It was rather muddy and he could not see the bottom. He started to sing quietly as they lined up the boats to pass through the pillars.

_Look out for me, oh muddy water_  
_Your mysteries are deep and wide_  
_And I got a need for going someplace_  
_And I got a need to climb upon your back and ride_

_You can look for me when you see me comin'_  
_I may be runnin' I don't know_  
_I may be tired and runnin' fever_  
_But I'll be headed south to the mouth of the Ohio_

_Look out for me, oh muddy water_  
_Your mysteries are deep and wide_  
_And I got a need for going someplace_  
_And I got a need to climb upon your back and ride_

_Well, I been down to the pain and sorrow_  
_Of no tomorrows comin' in_  
_But I put my pole to the river bottom_  
_And I've got to hide some place and find myself again_

_Look out for me, oh muddy water_  
_Your mysteries are deep and wide_  
_And I got a need for going someplace_  
_And I got a need to climb upon your back and ride_

Legolas turned to him as their boat passed through the opening between the pillars of the Argonath.

"Your voice is soothing, Naurlam. Your songs are sad. Why are you so sorrowful?" Legolas asked. James reached down and trailed a hand in the water.

"I have not seen my friends in seventy years. I have not seen my family in that long, either. For a short time…I thought I had an adopted family in Imladris…but it was not meant to be. I'm not mad about it any longer," he said, seeing Legolas about to ask a question. "I'm just sad over what has happened. I miss them so much. Dragons…we…dragons are extremely social creatures. In recent years the dragons of my world do not like humans so much, but I have been helping repair that relationship. We could not understand each other. I have taught many dragons to speak the languages of humans, and many humans to speak the languages of dragons," James said.

"You have alluded several times to dragons here in Arda, Naurlam. Have you been in contact with the servants of Morgoth?" Legolas asked seriously. James' dark brows furrowed, and he closed his eyes.

"I will not answer, Legolas. Not because I am ashamed of the answer, but because I do not feel you are ready to hear it. Leave it. The answer may come to you soon enough," James said, making it clear that he would not speak again.

Aragorn led them to the right arm of the River. Here upon its western side under the shadow of Tol Brandir a green lawn ran down to the water from the feet of Amon Hen. Behind it rose the first gentle slopes of the hill clad with trees, and trees marched away westward along the curving shores of the lake. A little spring fell tumbling down and fed the grass.

"Here we will rest tonight"' said Aragorn. "This is the lawn of Parth Galen: a fair place in the summer days of old. Let us hope that no evil has yet come here."

They sat and discussed for a bit, but it was decided that Frodo would once again take up the mantle of deciding their way. James watched him leave, a heavy feeling in his gut. He went into his pack, withdrawing a porous stone before he began carefully filing his nails to sharp points. During the hike in Moria and their rest in Lothlórien, his claws had become slightly dull. He had not wished to draw attention to the black nails in the Wood, but now that they were in the Wild again he had no problem sharpening his human talons.

"Those seem mighty wicked, Dragon," Pippin commented lightly as James carefully filed his thumb.

"I like to keep them sharp as one would a good blade. Never know when you need to rip something's still-beating heart out," James commented mildly, polishing the nail dust from his shiny claws. Pippin paled.

"That's sick, dragon. Just sick," Gimli grunted. James scoffed opened.

"No sicker than gutting them with a giant _hatchet,_" James snerked. Gimli sputtered.

"Hatchet? I'll show you a hatchet when I lift your head from your shoulders!" Gimli growled. James seemed unconcerned. Merry looked around suddenly, his youthful face curious and worried.

"Where's Boromir?"

* * *

Crimson eyes stared into the Dark Mirror, watching as his servant sank to the sand, weak from his encounter with the Wizards. His hands rested on the edges of the bowl, the right hand missing its index finger as he leaned over the bowl.

"_Hathalmyrn,_" he intoned deeply. The wraith in the mirror image raised its head slightly, trembling in the light of the sun. "_Your failure is not complete. The one that touched you has fallen into the Mordor fever and may yet be lost. Go again to them. Wait until the blasted sun is out of the sky. Attack by night. Decimate their numbers!_"

The wraith nodded its understanding.

"I have ever served thee. I will not fail," he hissed, sinking its sword into the sand to scrape off the dried blood.

A sharp smile came to his mouth, his flaming eyes flaring spectacularly.

"_See that you don't,_" he said, and shut down the mirror. He whispered an incantation, and another servant appeared, on a campaign for him. "_Khamûl!_" he called. The wraith paused, raising its head. "_Hathalmyrn seeks the Blue wizards and their ilk in the Brown Lands. Go to him. I do not need him destroyed, as useless as he is,_" Sauron commanded. The Wraith nodded, a creature of few words. The mirror was shut down again, and he sank back into his throne.

Things were not going according to plan. His servants were wasted piles of dragon shit, his dragon was now out of his collar, his Ring was in the hands of some worthless little pipe snorter, and one of his orc-captains just brought him word of a number of half-breeds of the loins of Morgoth's creations, living in the mountains and fighting their own kind. Orcs fighting amongst themselves was nothing new, but for any number of them to fight against their kind to take the sides of the Free Peoples was unheard of.

"What kind of twisted fuckery is this? The next thing you know I'll have dragons allying with Men!"

* * *

Frodo sat against a tree, his legs crossed beneath him as he toyed with blades of grass beneath his fingers. His heart was heavy. There were two choices laid out before him, and neither one was desirable in the least. Option one was to divert to Minas Tirith. Boromir said constantly that they would be given the greatest comforts offerable. He spoke of the soft beds of the palace, the great banquet table that would be laden with food at their arrival. Frodo was a Hobbit. He was a Hobbit and food and comfort sounded so very good at the moment. How long had it been since he had felt at home when he slept or ate?

Even in Lothlórien he had not felt truly at home. It was comfortable and they had eaten well, true, but it was not the Shire. As beautiful as it was it was not the Shire. He wished he were at home again, lying on the grassy hill at the top of Bag End, watching the sun set and smelling the honeysuckle as it ripened in the spring. Hearing Sam puttering about in the garden just a bit away, mumbling about the tomatoes. Hearing Bilbo shuffle around in the kitchen, making one of many snacks for the day.

The other option was to go straight for Mordor, to enter hell on earth to make a break for Mt. Doom and toss the Ring into the fiery chasm. A land filled with fire and ash, inhospitable to any and all. Filled with Orcs and Men of Harad and Rhûn. A land guarded by the fiery, glowing Eye of Sauron. A land governed by the Dark Lord and ruled with an iron fist. No warm beds, no filling meals, no beautiful sunsets over the hills of Hobbiton. No curvy she-Hobbits serving ale at the Green Dragon. But he knew. He knew what needed to be done. He also knew that it would not be easy. It would be so very, _very _hard.

He was suddenly taken with the feeling of eyes on his person. He turned where he sat and saw Boromir standing nearby, a warm smile on his face.

"I was worried for you, Frodo," he said softly. "There may be unfriendly eyes about. None should be so alone," he said. "I have found you, friend, and I will defend you if the need arises. I ask only that I can sit and talk with you for a time. When there are many speaking we ceaselessly argue and cannot come to an agreement, but perhaps between the two of us we may reach a desirable counsel," Boromir said. Frodo frowned.

"I know what counsel you would give to me, Boromir. And I know what counsel I must give myself. I am afraid. I am so very frightened," Frodo said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"My friend," Boromir said sincerely, coming and sitting next to Frodo. "You are weary. Even in Lórien your thoughts and heart was heavy. We miss the counsel of Gandalf and our grief is still fresh from his passing. But we must toil on. And I fear you toil the hardest of any of us, and needlessly."

"I know what counsel you would give me, Boromir. You would have me bring the Ring to your city. But you must understand: the longer it stays out of the fires that it was made in, the more danger the entire world is in. The fate of all of Arda hangs around my neck, and no one seems to care save for what my burden can do for them!" Frodo said, his face twisting in emotional agony.

Boromir's own visage was troubled.

"I seek not to use this ring. I seek it not for my own gain. You speak of the ring always as a tool of evil. Must it be so? Cannot it be used for good? On the evil hand it has done great things: terrible, yes, but great. Cannot the Ring do great things on the hand of a good person?" Boromir asked desperately.

"Were you not at the council, Boromir? Did you not hear what Gandalf and Elrond said? The Ring _cannot_ be used by anyone other than the One who made it!" Frodo replied.

Boromir looked away for a moment, but when he looked back at Frodo there were tears in his eyes.

"I have been raised my entire life in the eventuality that I would succeed my father as the Steward of Gondor. Gondor is a very big place, Frodo. Even when Aragorn assumes the throne, he will still need a Steward to help him. But listen to me carefully: there will not be a Gondor to go to very, very soon. Minas Tirith stands at the edge of Mordor. We can look to the East and see the glow of its hellfire. Daily does Mordor encroach on our borders. We cannot last much longer. This would be a sign of hope for my people. If we could take the tool-,"

"It is not a tool!" Frodo said, exploding to his feet. "You do not understand, Boromir. You have not carried this burden! I know the Ring calls out to you. I know it makes you promises and tells you things, but it is _nothing _compared to what it tries to tell me! Do you know how many times I've woken with the half-formed thought that I should slit the throats of all of you whilest you sleep, before I realize that it is not my own mind speaking? The Ring would have me kill my Kin, and the very King and future Steward of Gondor, a Prince of Mirkwood, and a high-ranking Dwarf of Erebor! Many times have I found myself thinking that I would be richly rewarded if I were to present this ring to its owner! You do not know, Boromir. You _do not know!_" Frodo cried, pacing wildly.

Boromir watched the Hobbit for several moments as he gasped for breath as though he had run a great distance.

"Is it folly to want to save my people?" Boromir asked at last. Frodo bowed his head, heaving a great sigh.

"It is not folly to want to save anyone. But we cannot do it in the manner you have said. But, I am glad to have heard you speak. My mind is clear now," Frodo said. Boromir gained a little hope.

"You will come with me to my city, then?"

"You misunderstand me," Frodo said, frowning.

"But you will come, if only for a time? Please, Frodo. I do not seek to be your undoing. We are all weary, and the otherworldliness of the elves was only comforting to Legolas and Aragorn. Come with me and rest a while. We will gather information on what the Lord of Mordor has been up to, and then we will-,"

"You still seek to take it! This abominable thing _cannot_ be allowed in your city, Boromir," Frodo was panicking, and Boromir could see it clearly. He breathed deeply.

"Frodo, my lad," he spoke, holding out his hands. Frodo backed away, a wild look in his eyes. "I do not seek to take it. I will not mention it again. We will walk back to camp with the others and we will all continue on," he said, speaking softly as one might to a frightened animal. He reached out slowly and laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo burst into action, jerking himself away from Boromir. He yanked the Ring from his chain beneath his shirt and slipped it on.

"Frodo, no!" Boromir cried. "Please, friend! I will not try to take this thing from you! Do not run as though from a thief in the night!" Boromir was much grieved. He had pushed Frodo too far. Tears filled his eyes and he moved forward several steps. "Frodo!" he called. There was no answer.

Boromir wept.

* * *

It was a hectic scene that greeted Boromir when he returned to camp. His face was drawn and very grim, his gate slow as he walked.

"Where have you been, Boromir?" Aragorn asked. "Have you seen Frodo?" Boromir hesitated.

"Yes and no," he hedged. James was on him suddenly, grabbing him by the front of the tunic and lifting him bodily to slam him against a tree. Boromir's breath left him in a whoosh.

"I _know _the Ring has been seducing you, Boromir! Did you try to take it from the Hobbit? Did you try to take the Ring from Frodo?" James asked, his eyes blazing with magic. Boromir was afraid of the dragon wizard in that moment.

"No! I did not try to take the Ring!" Boromir wheezed. James drew him close, and Boromir's booted feet touched the ground again. Their noses were almost touching, and the slitted pupil of the dragon's golden eye widened as his intensely colored eyes bored into Boromir's grey gaze.

"Do you swear it? Would you swear it on the safety of Minas Tirith that you did not attempt to take the Ring?" James growled. Boromir's eyes were wet again.

"I swear it! I did not try to take the Ring! I tried…I tried to convince Frodo to come to Minas Tirith. I tried to get him to come, but I swear I did not try to take it! He misunderstood my intentions!" Boromir pleaded. James pushed him away roughly, his back stiff and his tail whipping back and forth agitatedly. Aragorn replaced him, laying a firm hand on Boromir's arm.

"How long has it been since you saw Frodo, Boromir?" Aragorn asked. Boromir shook his head.

"A half hour, maybe. He…he put on the Ring and vanished from my sight! I have walked a way since then…it may have been longer!" he said. The other Hobbits were in a panic.

"Gone more than an hour to make his decision, and half of that at the least in distress!" Pippin cried.

"We must try to find him. Come on!" Sam shouted.

"What a moment! We must divide into pairs, lads, and not-!" but the Hobbits had already taken off, shouting for Frodo in their clear high voices. Aragorn turned to Boromir again, a very forbidding expression on his face. "I do not know what mischief you have played in this, Boromir, but you must go and protect those two young Hobbits. Bring them back even if you do not see Frodo. We will meet back here," Aragorn said. James growled deeply.

"I will go with Boromir. Wouldn't want him trying to convince Merry and Pippin to leap off a cliff," he growled. Boromir hunched his shoulder a bit, but nodded at Aragorn.

"I will go to them," he said, taking off in the direction Merry and Pippin had run. James was behind him, swift and tireless as the Elf. James suddenly pitched his face into the air, inhaling deeply and snarling violently.

"I smell Orc. Not far enough away to comfort me, but not close enough to worry. Yet," he said. Boromir felt his heart clench. It was his foolishness that had caused this! Oh, if he had just stayed away while Frodo sat thinking! "I can smell Warg, too. There are riders about. It is daylight. I do not like this turn of event."

"We must get to Merry and Pippin. They are not good enough swordsmen to fend off an Orc, much less one mounted on a sharp-toothed weapon," Boromir exclaimed. James nodded harshly.

They paused at a crossroad, James sniffing deeply at the air. The orcs were getting closer and it was mixing with Merry and Pippin's scent. He finally pointed to one of the forks, taking a step forward.

A long, lonesome howl rent the air.

* * *

The song James sings is called 'Muddy Water' from the musical Big River. It's the musical adventure of Huckleberry Finn. Great song, you should look it up. All songs that are sung here, as a matter of fact, are great to look up if you are unfamiliar.

So we are at Amon Hen. I deliberately cut it there because there is going to be one metric shit ton of stuff going on in the next chapter. Like, seriously a lot.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Don't forget to try and guess the sailor! You could get a cameo in one of my near chapters! Whoot whoot!

Favorite, follow, or best of all, Review!


	18. The Breaking of the Fellowship

Wow! Amon Hen! I'm so excited to get this started. This is when a lot of exciting things are going to start happening. I am really hoping that you guys are enjoying.

I only had one person even _try _to guess the sailor! :/ I'm going to leave it open for another chapter, even though I'm going to give my guesser a cameo too. So I guess there'll be two…if someone actually takes a stab in the dark here. Lolz. Remember what I said last chapter: Whoever has a correct guess gets to name a character to cameo in an upcoming chapter. You can choose who you want to be. I can write a Rider of Rohan, a half-orc of the Redling Village, or an Uruk-hai of Isengard. You can choose the name, description and personality and I will write it to the best of my ability.

I hope you're enjoying. Drop me a line if you're still in for the ride of your life!

* * *

Chapter 18 – The Breaking of the Fellowship

_A long, lonely howl rent the air._

James snarled and began to run, his wings held firmly against his back so as not to catch the wind and slow him down. Boromir was behind him, his boots thudding against the ground as he ran. They came to the bottom of a short hill, pounding up it quickly. As they crested it, James actually paused in horror. Merry and Pippin were surrounded by Orcs. But not only Orcs were there. There was another creature there, bigger, broader, and more ferocious looking.

"Well, what do we have here?" he heard an Orc growl. Another of the damned creatures hissed menacingly at Merry. Merry, holding his blade, struck out at the Orc that had hissed at him, striking it in the face with the flat of his blade.

"Oh ho ho! Spirit in the Shire rats!" the large Orc growled.

"Hey, shit-for-brains! Why don't you try picking on someone your own size, like Boromir?" James snarled. The Orcs turned to them as James bowled into the large leader. The orc used his momentum to flip him onto his back, before scrambling to his feet and going at James with his broad black blade.

Boromir charged with a war call, cutting down one of the orcs before it could defend itself. The others lunged, hissing and spitting as they tried to take down Boromir. His sword sang, slicing into their fetid flesh and downing them quickly. One of the Orcs threw back its head and gave a loud, signaling screech before the sound was cut by Boromir shoving his blade into its throat.

Boromir turned slightly to watch James strive with the large orc. It was like watching animals fight. Both had abandoned their blades and were arching and snarling, going for each other's throats with sharp teeth and claws. James would get his jaws around the orc's throat only for the orc to jerk him back to bite at him. Suddenly James' head shot forward, smashing into the Orc's forehead. The Orc was dazed for a few crucial seconds, allowing James to pull back his hand and strike like a scorpion. His claws dug into its flesh easily, the force of his fist shattering ribs. He grasped at something and pulled with all his might.

Merry and Pippin turned away, and Boromir felt his gorge rise. James held the heart of the orc in his hand for a moment, the muscles convulsing wildly before falling still. The wide yellow eyes of the Orc were alive for only a few seconds, before the light went out quickly. James crushed the heart in his hand, blood exploding between his fingers and running down his arm. He tossed aside the fistful of pulpy flesh.

"More are coming," he said, his voice almost hidden in a snarl. Boromir looked up just as a wave of orc burst from the forest, their swords raised high. He turned to Merry and Pippin.

"Do not fear little ones. We will protect you," he said vehemently. They looked frightened and child-like in that moment, but both of them were holding onto their blades like lifelines. "Are you ready, Naurlam?" Boromir asked as the Orcs ran closer. There were so many. James threw back his head and roared like a lion, his black hair crackling with static magic.

He drew in a deep breath as the first orcs approached, letting loose a deadly tongue of fire. Several orcs were killed instantly in the searing heat, a few others being burned badly before Boromir intervened and put them out of their misery. James held his ground, the blade he had gotten from Lothlórien singing wildly.

"Tonight you dine in hell!" James screamed, shoving the blade up through the bottom of an Orc's jaw, the tip of the blade protruding from its skull. He kicked the corpse off of his blade.

* * *

His heavy steps sounded through the trees as the _snaga _ran towards the clearing. Two of the foul creatures- _only two_- were decimating the number of orcs that had been sent with them. One of the Fighting Uruks had been killed as well. It was most infuriating. He strung the massive bow with skilled fingers, drawing one of the large arrows from his quiver. They were bigger than most bows, lethal in their force and devastating in their power.

Which to hit first? Once he fired they would be aware of his location, or at the very least aware that someone was shooting at them. He watched the winged warrior set another handful of orcs on fire.

Target acquired.

* * *

James heard the whistle, but could not act quickly enough. The arrow struck his leg, just above his knee. The arrow was slightly off center, which was lucky for him in the fact that it did not strike bone. However, it did go through flesh and muscle, and hurt like an almighty burning bitch.

He faltered, a high pitched screech of agony tearing from his throat. An orc took the moment of painful distraction to deliver a blow to his shoulder, nearly knocking his blade from his hand. James' other hand lashed out, straightening his fingers and using the sharp claws like a blade to slice the orc's throat. It was shoved aside and replaced by one of its fellow soldiers.

"Too many!" James snarled, cutting another down. "We need backup, Boro-,"

_Thud!_

James jerked bodily when the arrow struck his shoulder. He saw Boromir lift the Horn of Gondor to his lips, his ears aching when the horn sounded loudly. He parried back a few orcs again, before blowing another loud note.

James saw the arrow flying but could only watch as it headed for Boromir. It struck him solidly- and bounced off. It had been rebounded by the dragon scale worn around his neck. He jerked in surprise and discomfort, before beheading an orc trying to take him out. The next one wasn't so mild. It struck him in the stomach, off-center but deep.

An orc forced its way past Boromir, charging for Merry and Pippin. James turned and thrust out his blade, catching it in the side. He heard Boromir cry out as another arrow struck the Gondorian warrior.

James turned just as one of the large arrows struck his chest, high near his collarbone. He gasped and swung wildly, slashing the throat of an orc. Boromir received a dizzying blow to the head, splitting the flesh and knocking him to the ground. James wheezed for breath, but fell to his good knee. An orc kicked him in the chest, knocking him to his back.

"Take the Shirelings!"

James struggled to protect his face as the orcs suddenly ran forward, grabbing Merry and Pippin and nearly trampling James and Boromir. James finally got to a sitting position, Boromir struggling beside him as a huge orc walked towards them, its bow nocked. The arrow was aimed towards James. James saw the release, and shoved his arms up in an attempt to protect himself. The arrow lodged itself into his arm as it had the leg, scraping deeply into the bone and protruding through the flesh.

The bow was nocked again, and aimed at Boromir. The man was bleeding heavily from the arrow in his gut, and another stuck out from his shoulder, in an almost identical spot to James'. James could see from the angle that the Orc was going in for the kill for Boromir. He could not move to intervene. His right hand would not move well, and he suspected there might be muscle damage from the arrow in his arm.

"I suppose this is it, Naurlam," Boromir said calmly, staring into the arrow the orc was aiming at his face. James caught a glance of silver in his peripheral vision, but did not realize the significance until something quite solidly tackled the orc.

The figure was cloaked and riding a great, long-legged silver wolf. The wolf-rider leapt from his mount, engaging the Orc that had regained its composure after a blow from the mount. A glinting blade met the Orc's arm guard, sending sparks. Then the orc drew its blade and they engaged in a battle. James turned, looking to where the orcs had grabbed Merry and Pippin, and were nearly out of sight in the forest.

"_Accio, _Merry. _Accio,_ Pippin," James called weakly, trying to use a Summoning spell on the Hobbits. He saw the orcs holding them jerk inexplicably, but he was quickly losing strength and magic in the wake of these injuries. Tears filled his eyes and spilled over his cheeks. He could hear Boromir weeping too, his broad hand resting on the arrow in his stomach.

"I failed….I failed them," Boromir sobbed. There was a roar of anger and the slice of metal into flesh as the cloaked stranger beheaded the large orc and kicked the body away. He then turned to the two on the ground, his red cloak billowing out to the side though his face was hidden in the hood. The long-legged wolf, tall and broad as any horse, put its canine muzzle over the rider's shoulder, yipping and pushing the hood back as it tried to lick its master's face. James felt his world stop as the hood fell back, the laughing rider reaching up to stroke his lupine mount.

"Phelan…"

* * *

Aragorn cut another orc down, yelling his battle cry. Legolas had abandoned his Galadrim bow and was using his twin knives, the white handles nothing but swift blurs as the elf cut into foe after foe. Gimli was no less impressive with his axe, cutting their legs and then beheading them as they fell. They all had minor nicks and bruises, but Gimli had taken a dizzying tumble when an Orc had been slain and landed on top of him. He was a bit dazed but still well on the whole.

There were just _so many._ It was almost worse than Moria. At least there the Orcs had been forced to enter through one doorway, allowing them to cut them down at a rather steady pace. These orcs were everywhere, and just seemed to keep coming. Many of them were larger than normal orcs and extremely difficult to kill.

"Aragorn, duck!" Legolas cried. The Ranger ducked his head without question, narrowly avoiding a decapitation by a broad blade.

Abruptly a multitude of howls sprang up around them. From the forest several wolf riders bounded, their black blades shimmering darkly in the light between the trees. Aragorn cursed angrily. Boromir's horn had sounded, and they had no way to get to him. These Wargs were going to be incredibly difficult to get through, especially since-

The riders, cloaked in dark red capes and hoods, began cutting down orcs as they swarmed the fellowship. Their mounts also snarled and snapped at the creatures. A few dismounted, throwing themselves into the fray with reckless abandon, slaying orcs as quickly as they could come. With a dozen riders assisting them, they quickly decimated the attacking orcs. Those who remained living fled the wrath of the wolf-riders and the fellowship warriors. When the clearing was no longer crawling with orcs, Aragorn turned to their rescuers.

The wolves they rode were like nothing he had ever seen. They were huge beasts, easily as large as any horse, with thick, strong legs and broad paws. Their faces more closely resembled wolves than wargs, and their fluffy, bottlebrush tails were different than the clipped style orc-riders preferred. They were differently colored, some of grey, some of brown, and one of a mottling of black and brown. Their eyes were intense, regarding the warriors with a keen intelligence and sentience far surpassing any creature they had seen.

"Who are you?" Gimli demanded, his blood-stained axe still hefted in his hands. One of the riders stepped forward, bowing slightly towards them.

"We are the Redling Riders. We have been tracking a group of orcs and Uruks through these lands. You are lucky we found you when we did," a deep voice said.

"Let us then see the faces of the ones who saved us," Legolas said, his own twin blades held loosely but easily put back into use. "It is not often that those who mean no harm ride wolves."

One of the wolf mounts snorted haughtily, raising its head and delicately lifting a forepaw in a perfect vision of arrogant disbelief.

"Aw, see, now you've offended her," the rider of the wolf said, a cheerful female voice. She patted the wolf's side. "See now, Prauta, they didn't mean it. They're not aware how wonderful you are," the female soothed. The wolf lowered its head and stared at Legolas, large brown eyes looking at him brazenly.

"They're not wolves," the first rider said.

"They are not Wargs, either," Aragorn said. The rider regarded him, tilting his shrouded face.

"Aye, that much is correct. They are a mix of Wolf and Warg. We call them Warfs. Half-bloods, if you will. It makes them incredibly strong, incredibly smart, and much more even tempered. Why, I've only been bitten a few times, and that's usually when we're breaking them for riding," he laughed.

"We do not wish to be disrespectful, but we must leave. We have other allies to see to," Aragorn said, taking a few steps backwards.

"Your friends are safe. The Wolfmaster himself went after them. We decided to help those who were far more outnumbered," the rider said.

"If you are friend, then show us your faces!" Gimli said gruffly. The riders looked at each other, an uneasiness amongst them.

"You will not understand," the female said softly.

"We can be very understanding to those who have helped us," Legolas said. The others shuffled nervously, some turning to their wolves. The female sighed.

"You must understand. We are….we are like our mounts. We are not quite…one thing, nor are we the other," she said. Aragorn felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

"We will not pass judgment," he said cautiously. The female raised gloved hands, and pulled back her hood. Gimli cursed aloud, and Legolas nearly dropped his knives from nerveless fingers.

Her skin was a soft greenish grey, her jawline delicate and thin. Her lips were thin, her nose pointed up at the end with slightly broad nostrils. Her ears were large and pointed, one pierced with many rings from the lobe to the tip. She had thick black hair, braided back away from her face, with thick, shapely eyebrows to match. Her eyes were wide and framed with thick black lashes, her irises a deep ocher that fell to a more yellow hue.

"You're…a…" Gimli stuttered.

"I am Kalus, a Rider in the Redling Army. I am half-orc," she supplied, shifting from foot to foot. Her wolf, Prauta, nosed her cheek with a yip, making the girl laugh. She couldn't have been more than twenty five summers.

The others soon followed her example, lowering their hoods to reveal their faces. Their skin varied greatly. One rider had a deeper skin tone than Kalus, a darker green, and his hair was shorn close to his scalp. He had deep brown eyes. Another had very light skin, looking almost human save for the large pointed ears and crimson eyes. His hair was coarse and black, falling to his shoulders. There was another female rider, her skin unlike the others. Where they were in shades of green, grey, and the vague light shade of Men, her skin was brown, liken to a deep tan. Her hair was shiny and black, falling in dark, thick curls around her face. Her features were vaguely familiar in a way, and Legolas gasped when he looked into her eyes. The pupil was slitted like a cat's, and the iris was brightly yellow.

"Sceadu…" Legolas murmured. Aragorn looked at the brown-faced rider.

"You are of the Uruk-hai," he said softly, recognizing the similar features. Her dark eyebrows quirked upwards.

"Aye. My father was of the Fighting Uruk of Isengard," she agreed, inclining her head.

"We traveled with a half-Uruk for a time," Aragorn said, allowing a small smile to tilt his lips as he remembered the wide-eyed child of Rohan. "He was also of Rohan. Where does your mother hail?" he asked. The Uruk-girl tilted her head.

"She was from Gondor, my Lord," she said. "I am Talun."

"We will accompany you to your friends. We need to meet up with the Wolfmaster anyway," the first rider, the one with the darker green skin, said swiftly. The Redling Riders mounted their wolves, guiding them with reigns affixed to leather harnesses. The fellowship walked with them, with Gimli eyeing the abnormally large wolves with mistrust. One of them lowered its snout to him, sniffing at him and playfully nosing his bearded cheek.

"Ach! It's trying to eat me!" Gimli cried. Aragorn whirled quickly, thinking the cry was more serious, but merely made a face when the creature's long pink tongue planted a sloppy kiss directly across Gimli's face. The wolf's rider laughed lightly.

They came across the scene quickly. Aragorn gave a distressed cry when he saw Boromir leaning against a tree, two arrows pierced into him and a deep gash across his forehead. There was an agonized scream as a stranger was bent over James, examining an arrow that was horrifyingly close to his throat.

"Boromir! Naurlam!" Aragorn shouted, moving quickly to kneel at the Gondorian warrior's side. The arrow in his shoulder was surely painful, but it did not seem life threatening. The one in his stomach was more threatening, but far from fatal. His head swayed slightly, assumedly from dizziness from the blow to his head. Another figure dropped on the other side of Boromir, and Aragorn looked up to see the half-uruk, Talun, reaching into a satchel at her side to withdraw a healer's pouch.

"I will see to him. I fear the other warrior may be injured further," she said. Boromir's dazed eyes turned to her face. She gave him a soft smile.

"Well hello there, handsome. You appear to have tried to catch an arrow with your gut," she said lightly. His eyes started to droop lightly. "Ah, now! No sleeping, soldier. You've a head wound." She patted his cheek gently. He groaned, his gloved hand coming up to touch his shoulder. "None of that! Your hands are covered in orc blood. You're going to get an infection!" she said, her voice a little sharper.

Aragorn turned to James, watching as the stranger assessed the arrow wounds.

"The one above his collarbone is worrying. It's very deep. I think he's incredibly lucky that it didn't hit a major artery. If it had he'd have bled out by now," the man said. His voice was deep and gravelly, but pitched softly as he tenderly prodded at the arrow in James' arm. The man appeared to be average height, but was built very muscularly. His hair was a strange grey color, streaked with silver that made him appear old, though his face was still smoothed by youth. His hair was very long, braided in a single long braid with shorter hair near the top that escaped the braid and almost looked like a large silver mane. He had beard stubble on his face, clearly out in the wild for a while.

"Phelan…just pull it out!" James cried. Aragorn winced at the sight of the arrow through James' leg. The archer that had struck them had wanted to put them out of commission, cause them pain, and then most likely kill them at his own leisure. There was also a rather worrying wound on James' shoulder, rather deep and-

Wait…Phelan?

"You're one of the lost Wizards?" Aragorn asked. James' hand grasped Aragorn's tunic suddenly.

"Ar…Aragorn!" he gasped. "They took the Hob-Hobbits! Go after them. Boromir and I- _Oh sweet baby Christ, you son of a bitch!- _We'll be fine with these people! Go after Merry and Pippin!" James was trembling with pain, but there was a certain look in his eyes, a color that was coming to his face.

"One or more of these arrows is poisoned," Aragorn said suddenly.

"I know. We can treat them back at the village. They will be in good hands with us," Phelan said, reaching out and running his hand over James' forehead. James' face was flushed.

"We failed them, Aragorn. We failed them. There were _so many._ I used fire and magic, and my blade from Celeborn…but it wasn't enough. I couldn't-…I couldn't…" James was weeping, and each hitch of his breath made him cry out as the arrow in his chest shifted.

"Did you see Frodo, James? Was Frodo with Merry and Pippin?" Aragorn asked urgently. James' head jerked side to side as he cried.

"Nay, nay. Check the camp! I thought I saw Sam sneaking back that way while the orcs were attacking us," he hiccupped. Aragorn touched James' face.

"I will leave you to your friend. Boromir will be safe with them too?" he asked.

"Of course!" Phelan interrupted. "Any friend of James' is a friend to the Redlings."

"Very well," Aragorn nodded.

"Do you need mounts? You will not easily catch Uruk-hai on foot," Phelan said. Aragorn looked at the large wolves, before shaking his head.

"If we cross into Rohan and are caught on wolves, we will not be able to pass ourselves as allies," he said. Phelan nodded.

"Suspicious lot, the Horse Lords. Very well. Shapol! Go with them to their camp and give them what rations we have to spare. We are not far out of the village and they will need it!" Phelan barked. The light-skinned half-blood with the crimson eyes nodded sharply, directing his wolf to stand by Legolas and Gimli. Aragorn moved to Boromir's side. Talun had removed the arrow from his shoulder and had plastered the wound with a patch of gauze. She was inspecting the arrow in his stomach, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of leaving the arrow in until they got back to the village.

"Boromir, my brother," Aragorn said, taking up one of Boromir's blood-stained hands. "You will be safe with these people. They will heal you. We go to reunite with Frodo and Sam. We will find Merry and Pippin. Do not fear."

Boromir nodded.

"I am sorry for what I said to him. I did not mean…" his eyes fluttered slightly, but he managed to stay conscious. "I would have followed you to whole way. You are…my leader. You are my captain…my brother…my King," Boromir whispered. Aragorn's dark brows rose slightly, and he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to Boromir's forehead.

"I will see you again, Steward's Son. We will stand together in the White City. I will not fail our people," Aragorn said. Boromir smiled weakly.

"Our people…" he said. "Take…take my armguards. Wear the guards of the White Tree. I do not need them right now," he said, lifting his good arm. Aragorn removed the vambraces reverently. "I hope they…serve you well," he said. Boromir fell back weakly against the tree he was leaning against, shuddering in pain. Aragorn looked at Talun as she pressed bandages around the arrow in Boromir's stomach to stem the bleeding.

"Take good care of him. He is a good man," Aragorn said. Talun's bright yellow eyes seemed to bore into Aragorn's grey gaze.

"I wouldn't do anything else, My Lord," she said, grinning broadly at him. Like Sceadu, her canine teeth were elongated and sharp, giving her a fanged smile.

"I thank you, Daughter of Gondor," he said. Her grin broadened.

"May the wind be at your backs and your feet carry you as swiftly as eagle's wings," she said. He nodded.

"May your hands be sure and your mind sharp," he said in return, standing from beside Boromir. "Come, friends. We must see if we can find Frodo and Sam."

Shapol walked with them back to their camp. They were dismayed to learn that Frodo and Sam had already departed by boat, but at the same time relieved.

"Frodo has taken his road. I would have followed him to the end, but if I seek him now in the wilderness, I must abandon the captives to torment and death. My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part. We have gained and lost friends. Yet we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left. Come! We will go now. Leave all that can be spared behind! We will press on by day and dark!"

They emptied their packs of anything that was not absolutely necessary, leaving behind almost all of their belongings except for foodstuffs. They had their _Lembas_ from Lórien, and Shapol provided them with dried meat and two flasks of a sweet-smelling concoction that he said was good for strength.

"It is based on the Orc-droughts of old, but infinitely more palatable and effective," he said proudly. Aragorn nodded.

"Our thanks to you, Redling Rider. I do not understand all that has happened here, and time is not with us to come to an understanding, but if you are friends of the Free People, there will be a place for you in the world if we can free it from Sauron's grasp," Aragorn said. Shapol smiled sadly.

"And who are you to make such promises?" he asked. Aragorn grinned ferally, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Why, only the heir to the Throne of Gondor," he said. Shapol's dark brows met his hairline.

"Well then, your majesty, may your foes tremble at your feet," he said, bowing low. Aragorn turned to Gimli and Legolas.

"Let's go hunt Orc!"

Gimli agreed heartily.

* * *

Hopping was no fun, she decided. In fact, it was distinctly horrifying. Below deck, there were water-tight portholes that were windows out into the waters they traversed. The speeds were inconceivable, and the lurch from passing to another body of water nearly made her land face-first into the lap of one of the sea-elves. They were both red-faced for some time.

"We are now in the Snowbourn. When we surface it is only a short walk to Edoras," Ulmo said. She was provided a set of clothes that would not stand out in Rohan. She was also given a head shawl. She held it questioningly. "Men are mightily suspicious of the Firstborn in these lands. So close to Lothlórien you have the rumors of the Lady of the Golden Wood," he explained with a smile. She smiled secretively. "I would not go around with a sign that says 'look at me, I'm Elvish' if I were you."

"I see the wisdom in this. I thank you," she said, slipping the shawl over her hair and ears. Then Ulmo held out a sheathed dagger. She looked at it in fright.

"I do not want you to wander about with no protection at all," he said. She swallowed.

"Why, I have no idea how to use one of those!" she exclaimed. Ulmo's pale green eyes regarded her.

"I find it hard to believe one with parents as yours, and then a husband as yours would not be taught at least basic weapon handling," he said pointedly. She flushed. "Besides, all you do is hold it point out and wave it."

She took the blade from him, her hands shaking. Then he withdrew a small pendant from a pocket in the tunic he was wearing over his scale mail. It was a seashell pendant, carved on one side with his personal mark, the same one inked into his bicep, and hung on a braided cord. He gently slipped the looped cord over her head.

"This is my personal symbol. If you are in true trouble, I can come and get you. I would prefer you be around water if the need arises, but I am not forbidden from touching the soil of Arda. Go on, little one, be brave, and I hope this second chance is all you wish it to be," he said. There was a jerk on the ship as it surfaced. "You are a child of Ilúvatar and one of the Firstborn. May Anor light your way during the day, and Varda's lights guide your way when darkness falls."

She threw her arms around him suddenly, and he laughed brightly.

"Thank you for all of your help, My Lord," she said, her voice muffled in his tunic.

"All right, all right. Enough of this emotional stuff. Manwë will make fun of me if he hears of it," he laughed.

All too soon she was standing on Rohirric soil, watching as Lord Ulmo's ship sank back into the water of the River Snowbourn. She took a deep breath, setting out for the Golden city of Edoras. She had been there many times in her days, and she wondered if it was still as lovely as it had been. Lord Ulmo had said the whole of Rohan was in shambles. Perhaps it would not be as impressive anymore…

With a sigh she wrapped herself in the brown traveling cloak, more habit than of cold, her nervousness increasing with each step. Perhaps she should have gone somewhere more familiar first? No…as nervous as she was this felt right. She needed to be here. Yes.

Rohan needed her for something.

* * *

Golly gee! I have a general idea of what I want the characters to do when I sit down, but sometimes they just…act of their own accord. That's the mark of a good character, when it almost writes itself. :D So Amon Hen was a little different here….And I've basically just taken a huge poop on the rest of the storyline. :0 Oh noes…

J/K. I've got plans, my dearlings. Plans! I believe I'll be able to get everything straightened out even with these developments. And just hold on. Now that Amon Hen has been covered, there is little time before their arrival in Rohan. Mwa ha ha. }:3


	19. The Paths Taken

You guys! You guys! Well, true to my promise I have the two people who guessed the mystery sailor correctly. Congratulations peevesisawesome and Sakari13Lennie! These two will be getting a cameo character of their design in an upcoming chapter and I will try to remember and notate whose character goes where so that I may be judged on my ability to bring to life their characters.

The sailor is revealed near the end of the chapter. I won't spoil it here. Those who I talked to know who it was because their guess was correct. Everyone else gets to know in just a few moments. I hope you all like this chapter…I didn't get too many responses to Amon Hen. I _languished_ over that chapter for so long. I debated and wrote pros and cons to killing Boromir, and then finally decided that after all the strange things I had thrown in here, I might as well go whole hog and try to keep who I could alive. Death is coming later. :0

* * *

Chapter 19 – The Paths Taken

Phelan watched as the company of three left their presence. He turned to his own company, his voice authoritative.

"Clear the wagon of supplies. Divide them among your packs to lighten the load. They cannot ride and we will need to bear them away quickly," he barked. A wagon drawn by two shorter wolves was brought to the clearing after being emptied of its burden. The wolves leading the cart were not high enough for riding, but they were strong and swift, making them good beasts of burden.

"Roth, Kitat! You two lead the company. I will bring up the rear with the wagon. Forth, Redlings!" With a cry to their leader those who had dismounted took their places on the backs of their wolves and began to shuffle into a semblance of a company, save for a few people to help shift Boromir and James into the wagon. James' face was wet with sweat, his hair starting to plaster to his forehead. Boromir was beginning to look the same, his pale face clammy and his breath hitching.

"Talun!" Phelan called. Talun turned her wolf to him. "Praut can ride beside me. You sit with them in the wagon. Try to get them to drink some _Ambalpi,_" he said. She nodded, dismounting swiftly and nimbly climbed into the wagon. She sat between the men, drawing her satchel into her lap and withdrawing a leather flask. She went to James first, the one who was clearly suffering the worst. Kneeling by him as the wagon began to move, she gently put a hand behind his head and tilted it, pressing the mouth of the flask to his lips.

"Come now, _Kulkodor_," she said softly. James opened his eyes slightly, looking at her dazedly as his lips parted. She let a small amount of the sweet drink drizzle into his mouth, and he swallowed convulsively. She studied the face of the dragon warrior. His hair and brows were black as night, his short masculine eyelashes resting on his cheek as he closed his eyes again. He had a thin nose, almost royal looking in his bearing, and his almost elven pointed ears were well shaped. He was handsome.

She dripped a little more liquid into his mouth once more before turning to the broad Gondorian beside her. His dark hair was slightly tangled and he had the stubble of a man who had been in the wilds several days. His face was a little broader than the dragon-man, but he was very handsome too. Her mother had once said that the Men of Gondor were unrivaled for handsomeness. His clothes were worn but fine, and she was surprised to see the symbol of Lórien about his throat, clipping his cloak closed. She turned back to the dragon to see the same symbol. What manner of warriors were these that were accepted enough to wear the cloaks of the tree-elves?

"All right, soldier. Open your mouth and take a bit of drink. It tastes very nice and will help brace your strength for the journey," she said. Boromir tried to tilt his head up, but moving his head made him dizzy. Talun reached behind him and tilted his head like she had for James, placing the flask at his mouth and letting him drink. He licked a stray droplet from his lips.

"What…is it?" he asked weakly.

"It is _Ambalpi._ It means 'sweet drink.' It's based slightly on the Strengthening drink the Orcs carry, but it is made sweet instead of bitter," she said. "Want another sip, soldier?" she asked.

"Boromir," he said. She raised her dark eyebrow. "My name…is Boromir."

"Well then, Boromir," she said, rolling the 'r's dramatically. "Would you like another taste?" she said. Boromir's mouth quirked and he regarded her with grey eyes. She was exotically beautiful in a way. Her hair was thick and curly, different from the broad curls that had graced the heads of the hobbits. These curls were tightly kinked and very shiny. Her yellow eyes were expressive in her brown face, surrounded by thick black lashes and crowned with shapely dark brows. Her nose pointed up slightly, and her dark, bow-shaped lips were quirked as she awaited his answer. He gave her a reply, surprising himself.

"Aye…a taste would be nice…but I find myself…craving something other than drink," he said. She gasped lightly.

"You are a tease!" she laughed. "It must be the head injury!"

"Boromir…you're such…a cheesy whore," James muttered weakly. Boromir frowned, turning to the injured dragon.

"Well if that isn't….the kettle calling the cauldron black," he returned. Talun just shook her head. She felt the tension in James' body leave, and knew he had passed out. Boromir was on the edge of unconsciousness, and she put the flask in her lap, reaching over to push a strand of his dark hair from his face with a sharply clawed finger. His eyes fluttered closed, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Men are the same, no matter what Race they are."

They arrived in the Redling Village at the end of a day's march. Both James and Boromir were in very bad shape at that point, with little field medicine that was effective against the venom in their blood. The first order of business was to take them to the Hall of Healing. It was a large wooden building, extended from the old Hut that had been the village's original place of healing. Indeed the whole village had turned into more of a city than anything.

An orcish healer came forward, and it was he that was dealing with the dragon warrior, leaving Talun to take her interest in the Gondorian warrior. She first removed the arrow from his gut, carefully slathering a paste onto the wound that would prevent infection. Then his shoulder was cleaned and patched, before she had a healer's assistant help her remove his bloody, travel-worn clothes. She would have them patched to the best of her ability and cleaned while he was recovering. His body was bathed as best they could manage before he was slipped into a soft cotton healing robe and tucked into the soft bed.

Talun found her eyes lingering on the resting face of the warrior. Never had she found Men so attractive. Sure, she had admired a few that came and went in the village over the past few years, but none had stirred her. There was something about this dark-haired warrior that was more intriguing than his stormy grey eyes.

She noticed the Wolfmaster paying very close attention to the wellbeing of the dragon warrior. And when, like Boromir, he lay in an uneasy sleep in clean clothes, the silver-haired captain of the Redling Riders reached down, running the backs of his fingers across the man's face and brushing a strand of wild hair off of the forehead. The man's arm was bandaged and bound close to his chest, and his knee was stitched and splinted, having damaged the muscles so close to a joint. It would be a painful healing process, but hope was not lost for a full recovery.

"Talun," Phelan said at length. Her yellow eyes moved up from the dragon warrior's face, and she looking into the eerie yellow eyes of the Wolfmaster.

"Yes, Wolfmaster?" she asked.

"I put you in charge of them. Let me know if there is a change in either of them. I daresay the Gondorian will be up and about before James. If he insists on traversing the village, go with him so he doesn't stop his own heart before he knows where he is," Phelan said. Talun nodded respectfully.

"Yes, of course, sir. It can be quite jarring to be amongst the Redlings," she said. Phelan merely gave her a smile. He turned to leave the room, only pausing when the dragon warrior mumbled something. He turned back, his ears twitching. "James?"

James' lips were moving, but only a few mumbles sounds came out. Phelan leaned forward, trying to make out what his friend was saying. His lips were drawn together in a thin line, his beard rustling in the breath of his nostrils. James' body jerked, and Phelan heard him speak clearly.

"Will not fail you…" the words faded off for a moment into incoherent mumbles. "The clan won't fall!" James gasped, and then fell still, shivering in the fever of his venom sickness. Phelan's eyes rested on him for a few more moments, before he glanced back at Talun.

"If he speaks again, remember what he says. I'll want to talk to him when he's up," he said, before turning on his heel and walking on predator's quiet feet out of the Hall. She could hear his wolf yipping happily for him when he stepped outside. She glanced between the two injured men in the Hall.

"Well…you two certainly are proving to be interesting so far…"

* * *

The Uruk-hai ran.

Pippin was very frightened. Their speed was inconceivable. They seemed to keep up a steady gate, and Pippin knew that running at full tilt he would not have been able to keep up with them on two feet. He was almost relieved that they were being carried, though the company could certainly be better.

He could see the similarities between these brutes and the slender, young thing that Sceadu had been. Little Shadow had been incredibly strong for his size, almost as tireless as Legolas as they'd gone on their journey and then through Moria. Shadow had been much cleaner, though. That he would say. These Uruks stank of sweat and filth. Shadow had merely trailed the musky scent of travel. The Uruk carrying him had thick black hair, coarse and straight and braided out of his face. There were a few beads on the ends of some of the braids, white beads that looked strangely like bits of bone.

The Uruk-hai ran.

Merry had not stirred, and he was worried for him. One of the Orcs had struck him across the face when Merry had kicked the creature hard as they had been shoved into the arms of the Uruk-hai. The behemoth Uruk had laughed harshly at his orc cousin. Merry had been knocked unconscious by the blow, which made it easy for his hands to be bound and them draped across the Uruk's neck.

Pippin looked around as best he could, observing the gargantuan Uruks. There were several that were large and muscular, armed to their tusk-like teeth with daggers and broad swords. A couple were slightly smaller, their muscles more sinewy and their faces strangely younger. Running next to the Uruk holding him, was a thinner Uruk, shorter than the rest with lean muscles. The creature's hair was drawn back in a single long braid, tied at the end with a ragged bow. His eyebrows shot up as he observed the black bow. He looked closer at the face. The features were somehow more delicate than the others. The thick black brows a little more arched. The Uruk turned to him as if it had felt his eyes, and he saw the slitted pupils set into almost painfully pale green eyes, luminous like a cat's. It was a female. She bared her teeth at him in a fierce grin, showing her razor-sharp fangs.

And still the Uruk-hai ran.

* * *

She approached the gates of Edoras, her shawl held against her in an attempt to keep her nerves under control. The pendant given her by Lord Ulmo was hidden beneath her plain frock and the dagger was in her skirt. She had expected to be stopped at the gate, and so while still in the woods she had rubbed a bit of dirt onto her face and clothes, trying to look travel worn and less…elven.

The guard at the gate of Edoras stepped forward, hand on his sword as was protocol.

"Halt! Who approaches the Gates of Edoras?" he said firmly. She swallowed. Now or never.

"I am but a traveler. I have come a very long way, and seek only refuge in the city. Long has the hospitality of the Rohirrim graced the lips of travelers," she said softly, the perfect image of docility. The guard regarded her with sharp eyes.

"Where do you hail, maiden?" he asked. She could have snickered. If only he knew how old she _really_ was…but alack and alas! Elves were blessed- and cursed- with eternally youthful visages.

"I have traveled from Bree, my lord," she answered. His eyebrows shot up.

"You have travelled long. I do not make any promises of refuge. Few and far between are places of rest in the Land of Horses these days," he replied. She gave him a shy smile.

"I can work, my lord. I am not afraid of toil," she said, trying to leak a bit of desperation into her voice. It wasn't a ruse.

"What is your name, maiden?" he asked, his resolve fading.

"I am called Rían."

"That sounds…elfish," he said, looking at her oddly. She attempted a bashful smile.

"My mother had a certain….fondness for elves," she replied. It was not a lie.

"Fanciful things, those elves. Why, I heard they like to sometimes take Men as pets, making them dance for their enjoyment!" he said, with the clear look of someone who thought that was horrifying.

"I've heard they have their quirks," she admitted begrudgingly. Honestly….who was supplying the Rohirrim with information about Elves?

"Well, then, miss Rían, I welcome you to Edoras. I hope you do not regret your stay here," he said sincerely. She looked pleased.

"I am sure I will not."

* * *

Draca limped through the hall, her staff being used as an actual support for the moment. She was paying the price for a bout of monumental stupidity. From her shoulders to the hollows of her knees she had been lashed with a leather cord. Several times it had bitten into the skin, leaving a few bloody strokes in its wake.

And what for? Because she had _dared_ to comfort Théoden King. As the man sat shivering on his throne, the Green Wizard had brought him a lap rug, gently draping it across his knees and twinkling her eyes at him in an attempt to portray a smile. He had, in fact, smiled back at her, taking her hand in his and thanking her for her concern of an old man's wellbeing. As her hand rested in his she had subtly probed again at his mind, poking at the Shadows like one might test a surface with a foot to see if it will hold.

Gríma had appeared like a striking serpent.

"My Lord! What favor you have found with sweet Ithilrhas. See how she dotes on you," he said, wrapping his hand around Draca's bicep.

"She is as sweet as my Éowyn used to be. I fear my sickness has been difficult for my niece to bear. You are a very lucky man to have such a caring woman about," Théoden said, patting Draca's hand before releasing it.

"I count my blessings daily," Gríma purred. Théoden was quiet for a few moments, and Draca felt Gríma's hand tighten painfully around her arm in preparation of leading her away, when the King's voice came again.

"It has been a very long time since there was happiness in these halls, Gríma. A long time since the sound of little ones roaming the hallways has been heard with these old ears. I would love to see children in the Meduseld again, my friend. I would love to hear the patter of little feet once more before I die," he said, looking at his advisor. Draca could have spewed her breakfast potion between her stitches at that proclamation.

"My Lord…ever have I served thee loyally. I will do my best to bring your fondest wish to fruition," he simpered. The King beamed for a few moments, before slumping tiredly on the throne.

"Come, Ithilrhas….we will not bother the King any longer today," Gríma said silkily. He led her from the throne room, his hand still painfully tight around her arm. He led her through the hallways and well down into the bowels of the Meduseld. He brought her down into the cellars, taking several cool and damp pathways before coming to an abandoned room. It was likely a detainment room of some sort, as there was a pair of manacles attached to the wall. In the center of the room a plain wooden pillar stood, not quite reaching the ceiling. And she understood.

It was a whipping post.

He shoved her into the room and wrenched her staff from her grasp, tossing it aside like a branch of driftwood. He pulled the heavy door shut behind them, staring at her with furious eyes.

"You are becoming a nuisance, Witch. If you are not careful, I will stitch your eyes shut and throw you to the guards of the palace. A blind wench who could not tell on her attackers would be like fresh meat amongst the wolves. Do we understand each other?" he asked dangerously. She swallowed. One moment she was looking at him, the next she was looking across the room, her cheek stinging from the harsh slap. "Do we understand each other?" he ground out. She nodded.

Saying nothing else, he unclasped her green cloak and tossed it aside. Then he unwound the scarf around her face, letting it drop to the floor. Her grey eyes were empty as he unclasped the green skirt she was wearing, letting it fall to the ground to pool at her feet. Then he had her remove the long green vest and cream-colored shirt, baring her to him. He tweaked a nipple roughly before taking her arm and leading her to the whipping post. He pressed her hands to the wood.

"If you move your hands, I will shatter each one of your fingers with a hammer," he hissed. She swallowed hard as he moved away, lifting a thin leather cord from a hook. She trembled in the coldness of the room and with anticipatory fear. Her eyes followed him as best they could as he walked behind her. She heard a small whistle of displaced air before pain exploded between her shoulders. Her back bowed away from him even as her hands stayed pressed to the wood. Again, with a whistle and a snap, he laid another lash across her back. Her muffled screams echoed in the room, and several times she felt as though her knees would give out. For a while he concentrated on her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. She would not sit properly for a week.

The whipping felt like it would last forever, but eventually the stripes stopped coming. Then, with no other words, she was grasped by her hands and tossed unceremoniously on the floor. She landed on her bottom and another stifled scream tore itself loose. The pressure she was exerting on the stitches was tearing at her skin, making her mouth bleed. Then Gríma was on top of her, shoving her against her folded clothes and forcing her legs apart. She tried to look away when he entered her roughly, but he slapped her several times until her face was pointed back to him. She cried as he took her. And each hitch of her breath was torture on her back, his angry thrusts agony on her bottom.

As he approached his completion he grabbed her ears in a wrenching grasp. As sensitive as they were he twisted cruelly. Her eyes were wide and she convulsed in torment underneath him. His orgasm came upon him swiftly and powerfully, and when he was finished he withdrew from her and stood, tucking himself away.

"Recover yourself and then go to your rooms. If I see you near the King again, you will _wish_ I had used the whip," he said, before opening the heavy door and walking out.

That was two days ago. Now she was left with the remnant of the livid stripes and his angry use of her body. She _hurt._

As she rounded a corner she bodily smacked into another, losing her painfully precarious balance and falling sideways as the end of her staff slipped. The other body was soon bending over her.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I am new here, my Lady. I was lost and I was beginning to panic. I did not mean to knock you over," the voice said softly. Draca winced and looked up. The woman was bending over her, speaking softly and trying to look over her. Her head was wrapped in a head scarf, with a few handfuls of hair hanging from each side. She was blonde, her hair so light it looked silver in comparison to Draca's more yellow hair, which was streaked with stressful white. But then the woman's voice stopped, and she was staring at Draca with a sort of pained expression, her pretty blue eyes shrouded by some memory. She reached out and gently pushed a strand of Draca's hair to the side, revealing her ears. Draca's eyes closed. Surely this was another person who would pass judgment over the elven features that had been awakened when she dropped into this world so long ago.

"_Peredhel_," she breathed. Draca's eyes snapped open and she looked at the woman. The woman gave a rather secretive smile. She was wearing a head scarf, but at that look she reached up and pushed it to the side slightly, revealing her own delicately pointed ears. Draca's eyes welled with tears. It had been a long time since she'd been in the presence of someone else with elven blood. In fact it had been the last time she'd been to Mirkwood. "What is your name, child?" the elf asked. Draca shook her head, reaching up and tugging aside her own scarf.

The woman recoiled as if burned. Draca looked away in shame, but the elf recovered, reaching down and taking Draca's chin in her hands. Their eyes met, and Draca felt a soft, probing presence in her mind.

_Do not be ashamed._ Draca's eyes widened. Was the woman speaking in her mind? _Yes, child, I am speaking in your mind. I have a few of my own tricks._

Draca's tears suddenly fell. _Can you hear my thoughts?_

_Yes, I hear your thoughts. Who has done this terrible thing to you?_ The elf asked. Draca shook her head.

_My master…I was training under the White Wizard-_

_Saruman the Wise did this to you? Surely you are mistaken! This cannot be! _The elf woman seemed surprised. Draca sniffled lightly, but her face darkened.

_I surely am not mistaken! I remember the spell that held me perfectly still. I was awake the entire time as he drew the needle through my lips. He told me that now I could be a proper woman and be seen, but not heard…_

The woman's mind reeled. Then she regarded the half-elf before her. She looked at her hand, still loosely clutching the cherry-wood staff, and was struck with the sudden feeling of tingly magic in the air. How long had it been since she'd felt magic in the air! Not since- no, she would not think of it! The girl looked lost.

"Come, _edhel iell_, and we will talk for a bit. You look like you could use the company of one of the Eldar," she said. The girl smiled, pulling at the grotesque stitches.

_I am Ithilrhas the Green. But you may call me Draca,_ The girl projected. The woman smiled in return as the green-clad half-elf struggled to her feet with a wince. The woman held out her elbow in a friendly manner. The girl returned her scarf to her face and gave a muffled snigger, before looping her right arm through the offered arm and holding her staff in her left hand.

_I am Celebrían. _She projected in return. Then she patted the thin arm.

"But you may call me Rían."

* * *

Fever. Fever burned in his skin and then seared him with cold such as he had never felt before. Even in the presence of the Dementors he had not faced such sheer chill when the shivers took him. The days were passing in blurs. He was weak and sweated. Faces he knew but could not place kept water in him, though he sweated it out again.

Orion was watching his father die. He knew the fever of the Black Breath was on him. There were few herbs that they had in their possession that would help. Anything that would bring down a normal fever was not effective against the unnatural heat and cold that took the body of those who ran afoul of the Nazgûl.

He sat afar off from the camp, his knees drawn to his chest and his blue cloak drawn around him. Tears stained his face, cutting trails in the dust that had caked itself onto his cheeks during their travels. His shoulders hitched as he sobbed quietly. It was not fair. He had just come to know his father again and he would have to say goodbye as he was taken beyond the circles of the world.

A presence sat in the sand beside him, and he looked to see Lucius Malfoy seat himself elegantly, drawing his dusty cloak beneath him as he sat. Orion wiped at his face embarrassedly, trying to rid the evidence of his emotion.

"His fever is high again," Lucius said. He heard the young man's breath hitch. Not so young…they had been in this world seven times longer than they had been absent from the other world. Three and Ninety was Orion's age. "Unless something happens he will not survive much longer."

"Why are you telling me this?" Orion said testily. But Lucius was silent. He still wore his hair down, even in the blazing heat of the desert of the Brown Lands between Rhûn and the rest of Middle Earth. Several times, though, the dry wind had lifted the silky locks and Orion had seen the secretive peaked tips of Lucius' ears. His father had seen them, too, before the wraith had come, and liked to tease the man about them.

"There are clouds moving up from the South," Lucius said, his clear grey eyes gazing southwards, where Mordor sat. Orion looked as well, his own blue eyes searching the horizon. It was night, and difficult to see, but he did see two black shapes against the night sky. They undulated strangely against the pinpricks of starlight, and a heavy feeling sank in his stomach.

"Those are not clouds," he said, before scrambling to his feet. He lifted his wand and shot a warning flare of red into the air without hesitation. "Nazgûl! Nazgûl approach from Mordor!" he cried, raising the alarm.

The men and women of Rhûn were in action immediately. They knew it would be a death sentence to let the wraiths among them without a fight. Already one of their precious magic wielders lay awaiting the embrace of Mandos because of their inaction.

Death would not be easily brought to these Easterlings.

* * *

Khamûl had elected to bring with him the winged beasts. It was quicker and more likely to bring decimation. Hathalmyrn had taken up the steed when he had caught up to him. The other wraith was constantly talking, giving him blow-by-blow recounts of what had happened between him and the wizards, and what he hoped to achieve. This irked Khamûl, who was quiet and solitary by nature, as he had been when he walked as a Mortal Man.

"I will feed his intestines to my winged steed. Verily, I say to you, brother, that the wizards will beg for death!" Hathalmyrn said angrily.

"Silence," Khamûl finally said. The other wraith had a distinct air of one who was pouting, but he listened well to the second-in-command of the Nazgûl company. They saw a bright explosion of red sparks at the tent. He heard Hathalmyrn curse.

"Surprise is lost. Shall we dive and sweep?" the smaller wraith inquired. Khamûl thought, and then would have grinned had he the face to do so.

"Nay. Do not attack. We circle the animals like the carrion. They will soon lose their haughtiness. We will shadow their steps and interrupt their sleep. This we will do for three days. On the third day we will attack. And then, little brother, our anger will be hot and the wrath of the Master of Mordor will be poured out on their heads!" Khamûl said harshly. Hathalmyrn practically vibrated with excitement and threw back his shrouded head, letting out a shrill shriek of battle lust.

Those foolish enough to cross the Master's path would now pay for their misdeeds!

* * *

A strange amalgamation of activity in this chapter. The sailor was Celebrían, daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel and wife to Elrond. This is going to be a bumpy ride, guys. Gríma is still a bastard and is getting his comeuppance….next chapter. Can't tell yet if it will be the company's arrival at Edoras or a separate revenge from Draca, but something is going to happen to him.

I hope I was able to portray a semblance of coherent plot here. So many intricate side stories, and I'm trying not to forget any or leave them out of the loop too long. I've just now gotten to reconcile Phelan and the Redlings. They won't be cast aside any longer. :P

So if you enjoyed it, I would be honored if you would favorite or follow, but I would be ecstatic if you dropped me a review. I sure do love them!

_**Edhel iell – Elf daughter**_

_**Ambalpi – Orcish for 'sweet drink'**_

_**Kulkodor – Orcish for 'dragon'**_


	20. Connections that Run Deep

Chapter 20 up and out. I took a little longer than usual getting this one out, but I think you'll appreciate the final product. I am quite proud of this one, and I just messed with another plot twist. Oh well, I should think you guys are getting almost used to it by now. James is recovering in this chapter, but we get some great Redling Village action. My cameos do not appear yet, but I'm setting it up for them. :D

* * *

Chapter 20 – Connections that Run Deep

There was pain, but he awoke in considerably better shape than he had been when he had fallen unconscious. He heard ragged breathing to the left of him, and could only assume that it was the dragon. His eyes opened slowly as wakefulness came to him. He inhaled deeply, wincing as the arrow wound in his stomach pulled painfully.

The Uruk healer was there, her thick hair piled into a bun at the back of her head, heavy curls escaping it and making her look wild. She had a straw broom in her hand and was singing softly to herself as she swept the floor. She was wearing brown leggings and a dress-like tunic of dark red. Worn black boots moved with grace across the floor as she twirled to the sound of her own song.

She stopped singing suddenly, looking up at him with those unnerving yellow eyes to see him staring at her. She grinned at him, showing sharp teeth, before quickly scooping up the dust she'd gathered onto a dust bin and shuffling to a window to let it fall back outside.

"Well, well, soldier. You're awake!" she said cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

"Well…and terrible…" Boromir said softly. She dusted off her hands on her tunic and approached him. She rested her hand on his forehead, the warm fingers feeling soothing against his cool skin.

"The fever has gone. I'm sure there's pain, but you are already much better than the dragon warrior," she said, brushing his hair back as her hand left his forehead. His head tilted lightly to try and keep the contact.

"Will he be okay?" he asked instead.

"I do not foresee any problems. His venom is just reacting stronger. Apparently the Uruk that fired on you did not poison every arrow. The dragon was unlucky enough that every single arrow that pierced him was covered. You only had the one in your shoulder. Your injuries will recover all the more quickly for it," she said, testing the bandages on his shoulder. He winced slightly.

"How long will I be in this bed?" he asked.

"Well, with the healing paste from the Wolfmaster I predict you can get up a little later today. Perhaps the master healer will allow you to leave at lunch?" she asked optimistically.

"And where does one go for lunch around here?" Boromir asked. She gave him a grin and sat on the visitor's chair next to his bed.

"Many eat in their own house, but there is a common dining area for those who do not feel like cooking, or cannot cook at all. It's usually not fancy, but it's filling," she said matter-of-factly. "Or, if you feel uncomfortable around the Redlings just yet, you could come to my house and eat," she blurted. He saw her cheeks flush and gave her a handsome grin.

"I am curious about these people, not afraid. I should like to eat in the common area if I am allowed out for lunch, but perhaps supper may be had in your quarters?" he suggested. She smiled shyly.

"I would enjoy that," she said at last.

As it were, the healer in charge of the wing _did_ release him in time for lunch, under the instructions that he wasn't to do any lifting or bending and should allow Talun to check his wounds regularly. He consented, rather intimidated by the orcish healer. When he had been dressed in a clean set of clothes provided by the Healing Hall, he walked with Talun out of the Hall.

His first sight of the Redling Village was amazing. He had been expecting a rustic village, halfway falling over and mostly twigs and straw. What he found was a modern little city with cobblestone roads and neat wooden buildings. The Village was a sprawling, bustling place. Several men and women of orcish descent shouted greetings to Talun as they passed, giving Boromir curious glances. He had expected open hostility, not sheer curiosity. He didn't know whether to be amused or offended.

Yipping barks caught his attention as a tiny wolf pup scuttled across their path, chasing someone's cat. A young orcling of seven or eight summers zoomed past a few moments later, shouting at the wolf. Boromir was struck by the….normality. A human woman with dark hair emerged from a house nearby, holding onto the hands of brown-faced Uruk twins. Their cheeks were chubby with youth and their bright cat-like green eyes sparkled with the exuberance of the young.

He winced as they passed another dwelling place, hearing a loud crash and the shrill yelling of a woman. Then he heard the tell-tale smacking of a hand on a bottom, accompanied by the dramatic yells of a punished child.

"Looks like Zogtar is giving Lihtan a hard time again. He's a spirited lad, but rather hard to control," Talun said with an awkward smile. Boromir looked the way of the dwelling place, seeing a grey-faced youth storm from the house, wiping his eyes angrily. The boy happened to look up, startling Boromir with crimson eyes. They stared at each other for a moment before the boy snarled at Boromir, showing his sharp teeth.

"What'r you looking at, _tark_?" he growled. Several people around them paused in horror, and it was Talun who stepped forward, delivering a dizzying slap to the boy's face that nearly knocked him off of his feet.

"You know we do not use that kind of language around here, Zogtar! You apologize right now! This is a guest of the Wolfmaster!" Talun snarled in return, her own white teeth bared. Zogtar spat at her feet.

"I don't give a damn who he's a guest of! The Wolfmaster can kiss my-,"

"Are ya sure ya want to finish that sentence, Zog?" Many people had gone deadly quiet. Boromir turned slightly to see an older man of orcish descent, his face the strange graying green that seemed prevalent. His hair was black, braided into many braids and off of his face. His skin was lined with age, but he was still spry and looked very strong. He had been traveling recently, his clothes still dusty and worn. Zogtar turned and looked at the newcomer.

"Gismblog," he said shortly, hunching up his shoulders.

"I got back into town four hours ago, Zog. Four hours, and the first thing I hear is that ye've been giving yer mother problems. I hear this from at least seven different people. They're worried about ya, Zogtar," Gismblog said. "They fear yer losing yerself to your father's wrath. I would hate to see it, lad. I've seen ya grow from a chubby, toothless babe into a fierce young man, but if I think yer losing it I won't hesitate to take you to the Shed," the older orc growled. Zogtar's face went ashen, a sickly color even to a green-faced youth.

Boromir looked at Talun, and she looked rather pale as well. She tilted her head to him slightly.

"If a Redling cannot fight the violence in their blood, either Gismblog or the Wolfmaster takes them far out of the city, into a building in the woods, and puts them out of their misery. We've gotten it almost down to a science. Those born here will show their choice by their sixteenth summer. Zogtar is fifteen and it looks like he's going full Orc. We can't give them the chance to turn on us," she said, her eyes filling with tears at the thought of one of the youths being taken to the Shed. "It's said that the village was once burned to the ground by a Redling who they hesitated to take out. She was seventeen. It killed fourteen people, including seven children. We take the Choice very seriously," she finished, watching Zogtar process what Gismblog had said.

Zogtar's lower lip trembled a bit before he snarled angrily and fled back into the house. Gismblog sighed roughly, before his own red eyes found Boromir.

"So yer Boromir, eh? Phelan told me all he knew about ya. Name's Gismblog. I founded Redling Village nigh on ninety years ago, when it was just a few wooden sheds and about twenty half-orcs scraping together a garden so we wouldn't starve to death," he said, holding out his hand. A few of the crowd that had gathered stayed in curiosity to see if this Man would respect their village elder. Boromir reached out and took the old Orc's hand. "Now, don't let pretty little Talun here leave out any of the good sites! Ye'll want to go visit old Stargush and let Vorbat get a good feel fer ya! Vorbat's loads of fun!" Gismblog laughed. "And since ye've got a handsome enough face, if you go by old lady Bæcere's house, she might even give you some sugar cookies. She's a sucker for a handsome face, Uruk, Orc or Man!" he laughed lightly. A few people grinned at some of the names he mentioned.

Boromir looked to Talun.

"I shall trust my lady guide to lead me to the best spots," he said. She flushed at the praise. Gismblog laughed good-naturedly.

"Well if that's the case don't let her forget to take ya down to the hot springs!" he teased. Talun's face grew dark with embarrassment, and even Boromir's slightly tanned face turned pink. Talun grabbed Boromir's hand and began to lead him away from the snickering crowd. But Gismblog had one last tease to throw. "Hey now! Be good, you two! And if you can't be good, be careful!" he shouted at their retreating backs. Boromir found himself cringing for some reason, waiting for the punch line. He wasn't disappointed.

"And if ya can't be careful, name it after me!"

"By the Lidless Eye!" Talun breathed. But Boromir just laughed. He laughed heartily, even though it pained his side. As they walked his laughter faded.

"I must ask a question…" he said at length. She turned to him, watching his face as he thought about the question he was about to ask. "I have noticed…that many of your names seem…." He trailed off.

"Orcish?" she supplied. He grimaced, but nodded. "Many of us are named in the Black Speech. It is a way for us to accept ourselves. We will never be anything other than half human and half orc. There are even a few here that are fathered of the mountain goblins. We carry our mother's blood, most of the time, but we carry our names in the tongue of our fathers. At least, those of us who were born in the Village do. Many are they that enter the village already named," she said. "Honestly, most of the names are rather innocuous. 'Stargush' means 'ancestor.' He is a full orc that resides here, retired from the Black Army and quite a fine hand with the forge. He's well over four thousand years old. 'Vorbat' means 'blind.' He's a full Uruk-hai that came with the first generation of Isengard folk. Something went wrong when the Wizard pulled him from the dirt, and he was born blind. Saruman, in all of his wisdom and kindness, turned the blind man into the wild with no provisions. Gismblog found him and another, born with the mind of a child, starving to death while wandering the forests. Vorbat may be blind, but he's sharp in his other senses and has a wicked sense of humor. He actually has a daughter here, born of a fully Uruk female that was turned out of Isengard because she was born without her left leg. Lundar passed away in childbirth, but Vorbat adores his daughter. She'll be turning six next week," Talun spoke.

"Are there many full orcs and Uruks here?" he asked.

"We do not just take in half-bloods. We take in anyone who seeks redemption. There are many full orcs here, fully screened by both Gismblog and the Wolfmaster. It's how we learned a lot of our Orcish history. And strangely enough, some of the full orcs have damned good recipes. Stargush makes a horrifically spicy stew, damned tasty if you can keep the skin on your tongue. He says it's good for putting hair on the men's chests, and fluffing out the hair on a lady's…well…our full orc cousins do tend to have foul mouths," she said with a lopsided grin. Boromir laughed lightly, wincing a bit when his arrow wound pulled.

"Now that I've probably horrified you…would you still consent to go to lunch with me?" Talun asked. Boromir took her sharply clawed hand in his, before leaning over it and kissing her fingers politely. She looked at him through her thick eyelashes, her brown cheeks blushing prettily.

"My lady," he purred gently. "I would be honored to."

* * *

"You're late. Our master grows impatient. He wants the Shire rats now!"

The large Uruk, the one presumably at the head of the operation, gave a low growl at the red-eyed orc that stood in front of him. Pippin watched the exchange with worry. He didn't like where any of this was going…

"I am a Fighting Uruk of Isengard. I do not take orders from orc-maggots. Saruman will have his prize. We will deliver them," he growled. The orc looked very un-amused at being called a maggot, and gave a small hiss to the lead Uruk.

Pippin looked over to Merry, who looked distinctly green and moaned slightly. The gash across his forehead had bled freely, coating the side of his face with a sticky layer of blood. Pippin happened to see the Uruk female drinking something out of a leather pouch.

"Please!" he called. She looked at him, her pale green eyes shining malevolently. "My friend is sick. He needs water!" he called. The she-orc grinned toothily.

"Sick, is he? I guess I'll just have to give him some medicine!" she laughed harshly. She grabbed a handful of Merry's hair and tilted his head back, pouring a mouthful of thick liquid past his lips. Merry choked and spluttered, but came to with a gagging groan.

"Look at it! It can't even take his draught!" Another Uruk laughed.

The lead Uruk turned back to the Mordor orcs, a glare in its eyes.

"And where is our ambassador? The white wizard will be displeased if you've killed him," he growled. The red-eyed orc growled, but made a motion behind him. There was a parting of the host of orcs, and a thin, brown-skinned Uruk was tossed at the feet of the leader. He was dressed only in leggings and a leather belt with several pouches, his bare back crisscrossed with deep, angry whip lashes. "Damn it, you filthy _snaga_," the Uruk growled. One of the orcs growled in return.

"He weren't even fun to _fuck._ He just lied there an' took it like a _tark_ bitch!" And the host of orcs tittered and laughed cruelly. The lead Uruk's hand shot out, slashing across the offending orc's face and leaving deep gashes.

"Watch your mouth, Mordor scum! One of us is worth a hundred of you!" he bellowed. He reached down and grabbed the injured Uruk by the arm, dragging him to his feet and grabbing his own leather flask at his side. He tilted the Uruk's face back and poured some of the same sticky draught between his lips. The Uruk spewed a little of it, coughing weakly, but opened his pale orange eyes. He was plied with a bit more of the bitter orc-draught, before he finally stood to his own feet, bare as they were.

Merry watched through half-lidded eyes as the injured Uruk took a spot between the Uruks that carried them.

"Did you enjoy your time with the _snaga_ cousins?" The Uruk holding Pippin sniggered. The injured Uruk growled lowly.

"You're a persecutor of the foulest sort, Zagat, and I sincerely hope that you suffer overwhelming anguish at the hands of your enemies," The Uruk snapped, his voice surprisingly cultured and rich. Pippin's eyebrows met his hairline, and the Uruk holding Merry gave the smart Uruk a good slap around the head.

"Keep talking, Hugi, and I'll steal your clothes and fly them as the Isengard standard again. You had to climb the pole naked to get them back!" The Uruk laughed roughly. Merry and Pippin met gazes over the head of the shorter, thinner Uruk.

"You are both brazenly, rapacious, duplicitous, larcenous swine!" Hugi growled. "I loathe the very presence of you!"

The two Uruks rolled their eyes. "If the master hadn't spent so much time making one of us educated, I swear I'd rip your face off," Zagat snarled. The lead Uruk suddenly pitched his nose into the air, breathing deeply. "What do you smell?" Zagat asked. The Uruk growled.

"Man flesh. They've picked up our trail," he growled. Hugi snorted.

"Well it's no wonder…you are all exceptionally invasive to the olfactory sensibilities. A Rohir with a head-cold could smell you a league away!" he snapped.

The lead Uruk showed his teeth to Hugi. "Move out!"

In the confusion of their flight, no one noticed Pippin toss the brooch of his Lothlórien cloak to the ground.

* * *

Harry sat at Sirius' side in the wagon they had cleared for his transport. Along with the warrior men and women, there were wives and children that had been taken along. Four hundred warriors there were, but there were a good two hundred more souls in the Rhûnic party that had little to no experience with fighting. A few of the children had been moved to another wagon to free this one up to transport Sirius. Harry and Orion had been taking turns sitting with him.

Sirius was muttering quietly in his fever, and Harry couldn't make out what he was saying. It sounded vaguely like Latin, but without his speaking clearly he could not be sure. He was suddenly aware of eyes on his person, and turned to the opening of the wagon to see Lucius perched at the entrance, his eyes almost glowing in the shadow of the wagon.

"Do you know what he's s saying?" Harry asked brokenly. Lucius was quiet, but nodded. "What is it?"

"He's muttering the last rites of magic folk," Lucius said quietly. Harry's face was miserable, and tears cut a path in the dirt on his cheeks.

"He saved _me._ He tackled that foul creature to save _me_," Harry whispered. For three days those damned black spirits had circled their company like carrion crows, dogging their footsteps in the daylight and shrieking intermittently at night and destroying their rest.

"Potter," Lucius said softly. Harry looked up at him. "What say you to a grand scheme, worthy of the cunning of Slytherin and the valor of Gryffindor?" he asked, a strange grin coming to his face. Harry's eyebrows twitched upward at the look. Harry wiped the tears from his face, clearing his throat and generally composing himself.

"What do you propose?" he asked.

"All right, Potter, listen closely…"

* * *

Hathalmyrn let out another shriek as he swooped closer than ever towards the rag-tag Rhûnic army. The effect was just as Khamûl had predicted. For days they had followed overhead, quiet as mice in the daytime, but when the night came, the warriors watched them warily, their sleep interrupted as they shrieked and spurred their mounts into roaring challenges. The sharp scent of fear was so very pungent this evening.

Khamûl was silent, as he always was, but Hathalmyrn kept trying to draw the larger wraith into conversation as they flew. Hathalmyrn was the smallest wraith, and as the others were quick to point out, the weakest as well. He had been the last of the Nine to be added, his own kingdom fading as Sauron the Great had offered him power. Even as a Nazgûl he sought the approval of his black brethren. Murazor hated everyone, and ruled the company with an- pardon the pun- iron fist. Khamûl was second in command, less forceful than Murazor but no less dangerous to mess with.

Then there was Dwar, Ji Indur, Akhorahil, Adunaphel, Ren and Uvatha. Hathalmyrn ranked last and least of these, being not of Númenórean or Rhûnic descent.

"Silence!" Khamûl barked suddenly, causing Hathalmyrn to pause. "Something moves."

Two of the wizards suddenly lifted into the air, sitting astride…brooms. Hathalmyrn shrieked a laugh.

"What do they expect to do, sweep us away?" he asked snidely. They shot into the air, flying until they were even in the air with the Nazgûl on their mounts. The dark-haired one floated forward a bit, a fierce look on his face. Hathalmyrn recognized him as the one who had been stabbed before the other wizard had physically tackled him.

"Hast thou returned for another taste of my blade?" Hathalmyrn called.

Harry tilted his head.

"I will give you an ultimatum. You can either tell me how to heal Sirius, or I blow you and your lover up," Harry growled. It was Khamûl who nudged his mount a bit closer to the floating wizards.

"Thou art a fool. Thou dost stand the same chance as a snowball in Udûn of defeating either of us. And I am offended that thou thinkest me the lover of that one!" Khamûl hissed slowly. Hathalmyrn leaned forward a bit on his winged mount, putting his elbow into the neck of the beast and resting his shrouded face against his hand with a sigh. Of _course _Khamûl was insulted to be called his lover. Bastard.

Lucius watched the two wraiths warily, his grey eyes darting between them. There was something strange about the magic that ran these creatures. Foul and polluted it was, and yet…there was something he was missing. While Potter stared down the wraith, he studied them closely. They wore metal armor beneath thick black cloaks, their faces shrouded from view. Their hands were covered in metal gauntlets and their feet encased in wickedly pointed metal boots. On their right hand they wore a simple gold band, cold and darkly glittering in the sun.

Lucius' head tilted slightly as he studied the rings. There was something strange about them. He carefully twitched his wand hand, casting a spell on himself. It was a spell that he had learned from Lord Voldemort, a spell that let the naked eyes of wizards analyze magical signatures. It was a great tool for breaking wards and protective barriers, or finding magical links between items. And so it was that as soon as the spell activated he was almost blinded by the magic in the rings. When his eyes adjusted to the glimmering magic, he noticed several things.

One: the wraiths had a totally different appearance under the magical Sight. They appeared as men, dressed in their dark armor and cloaks, their gauntlets gripping at the reigns of their beastly steeds.

Two: the rings now had a silvery sheen to the gold, letting him know that they were highly magical.

Three: There was a slender thread of magic connected from the wraith's hands, heading over the dark horizon towards Mordor. So the master of the Black Land had these creatures connected by the rings, eh? Well, they would just have to see what they could do about that!

"Potter. New plan! We use a magical severing spell. Aim near their right hands," Lucius said quietly. "I would prefer using Praecantatio Divido."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the wraiths, but nodded once.

"Say, boys? How about a duel?" Harry asked with all the bravado of a Gryffindor. "You may have gotten under my guard while I was on the ground, but no one can outfly me," he said with confidence.

"Thou art a braggart. I accept," Hathalmyrn said quickly. Khamûl turned to him with an annoyed air.

"Then thou wilt face him alone. I will…observe," he said, before turning his steed away from them. Lucius grinned. It was very obvious that this smaller wraith was not as strong as the other one. If they could but separate its power from its Master…

Harry shot forward on his broom and cast a spell at the wraith. The flight was on. The winged beast was quick, snapping at Harry as he zipped around the Nazgûl like a gnat.

Khamûl was watching the silver-haired wizard closely. He didn't like the way the pointy-eared charlatan was looking at his and Hathalmyrn's rings. There was something...off about the wizard to begin with. Though he was one of the Eldar he smacked of Darkness. It was alluring and repelling at the same time, the darkness and light warring within one creature.

Hathalmyrn hissed as one of the dark-haired wizard's spells struck home. Khamûl was one to give credit where it was due. A foolish, arrogant mortal the wizard may be, but he flew as if the spirit of the Master himself was at the bristles of his broom. He was like the wind itself, docking and twisting in ways that the living, breathing steed could not do. Hathalmyrn looked a fool trying to keep up.

It was so sudden he didn't see it until it was too late. The elf-wizard aimed and fired, a simmering arc of magic narrowly missing Hathalmyrn's hand. Khamûl turned to the wizard, shrieking a challenge.

"Thy aim isn't up to the standards thou hast bragged about. You missed," he cried. Hathalmyrn was frozen in mid-air, not moving as his hood was facing his hand.

Lucius threw his head back and laughed darkly as his magical Sight faded from his eyes. "Did I miss? Or did I hit exactly what I meant to?" he asked. Khamûl turned back towards his Nazgûl brother, just in time to see the other wraith slip from the back of his steed and fall like a stone from its back. He moved his mount forward, only to be blocked by the blonde wizard.

And then came the pain. Through his connection to his master, through his ring, he felt rage and desperation such as he had never felt. He nearly lost the reigns of his winged beast. As it were he screamed in agony, clutching his right hand to him.

_Return...return...come to me..._

He could hear his Master's voice calling him, and he took one look at Hathalmyrn, who was now convulsing on the sand, and fled. Hathalmyrn's mount followed behind him, screeching one last time as it followed Khamûl.

Harry approached the shuddering Nazgûl carefully, his wand drawn. A group of the men and women from Rhûn were standing nearby, weapons at the ready as Harry approached the wraith. He saw Alatar and Pollando sprinting towards them with their staves glowing and looks of panic on their faces.

"Wraith! You will tell me-," Harry was cut off as the Nazgûl shot to its feet, grasping his left hand with its right and shrieking loudly. Harry had once touched an electric fence by mistake, and the jolting electricity had zapped him soundly, and had taken an effort to draw away his hand. This feeling was the same. Magic warred within him, swirling and twisting and jerking. He could vaguely hear the Nazgûl screaming, and his own ragged screams were added to the cacophony. After an eternity of pain and magic, the two fell away. The Nazgûl fell backwards heavily, lying still on the sand. Harry stood for a few moments, feeling dizzy and disoriented, before he fell backwards as well.

Lucius cursed as he sped to the ground, once again activating the Magical Sight. There was a dazzling again as he got used to seeing the Wraith in its alternate form, before he glanced at the ring. No longer did the thin cord of magic connect eastwards toward Mordor. He landed heavily on the sand, his heart sinking solidly as he spied the magical cord.

It was connected to Harry Potter. Lucius could only say one thing that distinctly described the situation as he saw it.

"Shit."

* * *

Female Uruks and rogue Nazgûl. I'm just…I'm just gonna let that one simmer for a while. Just go ahead and think about that. Oh, and before I took the time to actually look up some of the names of the other Nazgûl, I had created Hathalmyrn. Since I had already named him I decided not to try and change it, and just left out one of the other names to make nine. If anyone is curious, the other Nazgûl is actually named Hoarmurath. And according to most evidence, it was likely that Sauron held the Nine rings of power that were given to the Nazgûl, but for the purposes of this story...I just ignored that. I'm already in a firm AU, I might as well make the most of it. Lol.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was all twisty and dramatic-like. So I will leave you with the hope that you leave me lots and lots of great reviews, because I love them and I love you. And I hope you love the story.

(No Rohan in this chapter. Maybe next time…I figured you'd forgive me if I mentioned the Redlings in great detail.)

Favorite and follow, but don't forget to review!


	21. Anger and Kindness

I got zero reviews last chapter. Absolutely goose egg. That's…never happened before. I was seriously depressed. :( It made me sad. Did you guys not like my plot twists last chapter? There seemed to still be a good amount of people reading…I just didn't get any feedback. I hope you guys like this chapter better. We're getting close to a reunion in Rohan. I'm just trying to set it up whilest still setting up other twists and keeping to the timeline. It's not so easy.

Anyway, I hope you like this one better than you did the last one…

* * *

Chapter 21 – Anger and Kindness

"Oh God….did anyone catch the number of the Oliphaunt that ran me over?"

Consciousness came slowly. It was like he was swimming through a sea of thick molasses, his limbs heavy with fatigue and his mind weary.

"No Oliphaunts involved, sir dragon, but a few poisoned wounds," said a voice nearby. He opened his eyes to see a man of average height standing next to his bed. The man's skin was a sickly grey color, his eyes black as night. James noticed his hands were clawed sharply with dark nails, and his ears were large and pointed. He looked rather…orcish.

"I'm going to go ahead and suspend my alarm for a few moments, and give you the time to explain to me exactly where I am before I start shooting fire out of my face," James said calmly, rather impressed with himself for his control. The man seemed surprised for a moment, before nervously running a hand down the front of his robes.

"I am Master Healer Kasnok of the Redling Village. You are here under the orders of Wolfmaster Phelan. We are-,"

"Phelan's here? Where is he?" James asked, trying to sit up. Pain lanced through his body, causing him to gasp tightly. The Healer's hand was on his chest, gently pushing him back into the bed.

"You are moving much faster than I anticipated, but you are still recovering. Your collar bone was cracked by the one arrow, and the bone in your arm was deeply gouged. Your knee was mostly muscular damage, but I expect a full recovery," the healer said. James frowned, leaning back into his pillows and sighing.

"I hate being sick…" he groaned.

"You always have, you big baby."

James' head snapped up to see Phelan standing in the doorway, a crooked grin on his face. James felt as though his heart would beat out of his chest. He said no words to his friend, merely staring at him for several moments, before large tears began to fall from his eyes. Phelan had a look of compassion on his face as he approached James' bed.

"I looked…._everywhere,_" James finally choked out. And then the dam broke. His shoulders heaved with sobs, his face twisted in pain and emotional torment. Phelan sat by James on the narrow bed, careful to avoid his wings as they were folded behind him. For several minutes Phelan just sat with his long-lost companion as he cried. Healer Kasnok slipped out like a shadow to leave them with some privacy. After a while, James' sobs petered out, leaving him with only the hitching breaths of someone who had poured out their heart through their eyes.

"I was found by Gismblog, the man who began this village. I've traveled all over Arda, looking for all of you, taking care of the half-bloods, and raising an army of wolves. Never did I find Draca. Never did I find Orion," he said, looking at his hands as he spoke.

"I traveled with an elf for a time, and he said he had known Draca, and even Orion for a bit. Orion went south towards Harad looking for us sixty years ago, and Draca was a wandering Istar. She was last seen in Mirkwood a decade ago. Phelan, I….I was trapped in my dragon form…I couldn't openly look for any of you," he said. Phelan looked surprised.

"Trapped as the dragon? How is that?" he asked curiously. James looked rather sheepish for a moment, and Phelan narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

"I may have pissed off the Dark Lord. _Gawd!_" James said stubbornly, pouting rather magnificently.

"You were in the presence of Sauron?" Phelan asked in surprise.

"I landed face-first in Mordor. I was brought to the foot of Sauron's throne. I spoke with him….briefly. I was there a week. They were trying to break my spirit…but I kind of escaped…" James said, picking at the blanket across him.

"You escaped Barad Dûr?" Phelan gasped. James hitched up his good shoulder.

"Sort of. I escaped the dungeon, and was on my way out the door. But I had to pass through the throne room. _Of course _Baron von Dickwit was there, asplendor in his emo armor…" James continued. "I was chased by one of the Nazgûl. I believe it was the Witch King. I had transformed to escape, catching him by surprise. I was out the door….I was home free…The Nazgûl caught me….he put a collar around my neck…I could not change back…" James' face was haunted as he spoke. He remembered the choking air of Mordor as he'd tried to flee. He remembered the icy feeling of the Witch King's knee in his side as he pinned him with the collar. He looked up finally, catching Phelan's gaze. "And for seventy years I have been the dragon. Until recently."

"James…I…I don't know what to say. Never was there a day that you and the others were not on my mind….I'm so sorry," Phelan's voice was thick.

"Tell me one thing: have you been happy?" James asked suddenly. Phelan seemed surprised.

"Well…for a while I survived in the wild, alternating between my human and wolf form. I made some enemies amongst the goblins. They wanted to use me to breed with their wargs, thinking I was a mutation of a warg. But the Redlings found me. I've been here, helping to raise this city from a quaint little village of outcasts. I've used my magic and my knowledge to make the lives of these people easier. I…am one of them," Phelan said. James smiled at him then, the same lopsided smile he'd inherited from his father, one of warmth and friendship.

"Then I am happy for you."

But Phelan wasn't quite done with James. "James…please tell me…please say that you haven't been alone for seventy years…"

"No. I've…I've made a few friends…" James said evasively. Phelan's eyes narrowed, but he didn't press for answers. He wouldn't have gotten them. James looked over suddenly, his face curious. "Where's Boromir?" he asked.

"Your friend has taken quite a liking to one of my Riders. She has been showing him around the Village," Phelan answered. James laughed.

"That sly dog! I knew all he needed was a good shag!" James exclaimed. Phelan grinned wolfishly.

"Well Talun is no blushing maiden. She's young, but extremely fierce and loyal. I wish them both luck!"

Phelan was quiet for a bit, before he cleared his throat. "James…you…you've been traveling with some people of great import," he began.

"Yea…their social standing is almost as large as their ego," James said with a fond grin. Phelan gave him a fleeting smile.

"Well…I know your friends were seeking their number that was taken…and…I was wondering if you may be able to convince one of them to allow citizenship to the Redlings. You see…we are in and out of the borders of Rohan…our presence here is illegal. If the King of Rohan knew we were here we would face the full might of the Rohirrim. We are only a small city of about six hundred people….many of those being women and children…" Phelan trailed off. James seemed to think on it for a moment.

"The hobbits were taken by Uruk-hai, which were put here by Saruman. _I_ say that they're going through Rohan. Muster up a delegation and march to Edoras. Be sure to bring a few chubby-faced babies and their mums. Kings are more likely to have mercy on women and children," James said. Phelan sucked on his teeth for a few seconds.

"Straightforward…and yet devious. I like it," Phelan said with a grin. James returned it, flashing his fangs.

"Well…I _was_ in Slytherin, thanks ever so much."

"I will go speak to Gismblog. If we can muster up a decent group, we will leave tonight for Edoras," Phelan said decidedly. James winced.

"Boromir and I will go with you. I can heal and walk," he said.

"We will be riding. I will bring a few wolves and a few horses. The Rohirrim judge people on how they treat their horses. It may do us good to take a few traditional mounts," Phelan replied. James groaned.

"Oh god…horses hate me and I can't ride worth _shit._ Suddenly this trip seems _so_ much less fun," he groaned. Phelan laughed.

"Cheer up, mate. I'm sure your riding attempts will keep us plenty entertained. I'll have to ask Talun to come so she can heal you when you break your neck," Phelan teased. James pouted.

"Flea-bitten bitch," he grouched. Phelan snickered.

"Mangy lizard," he returned fondly.

Perhaps the trip wouldn't be so terrible after all…

* * *

Harry sat between Sirius and Lucius in the sand, all three quiet as they stared across from them. The Nazgûl sat as quietly as a shadow across from them, regarding them with the same quiet concentration that they had for it. Harry had awoken to a sound verbal blistering from both Blue Wizards. No one would go near the fallen wraith, and it was finally Harry that had approached it.

He was super pissed about what he had found out. Lucius had indeed managed to cut the connection between Sauron and the wraith, but when the wraith had grabbed him, the connection had transferred to _him._ Why? His wedding ring. His _goddamn _wedding band, which had just enough magic in it from a wizard's bonding ceremony to allow the wraith to attach itself to _him._ He had punched Lucius in the face when he found out. The man had taken it like champ, but told him clearly it was his only free shot and if he tried it again he would find a boot in his arse.

The wraith was rather annoying. It simpered worse than Dobby, trying to serve him and cringing when he yelled at it. But first he had asked the wraith if there was a way to remove the Black Breath fever from someone. The wraith had been shown to Sirius and ordered to heal him. It was as simple to the shrouded creature as waving its hand. Sirius had jerked to life, coughing up a cloud of oily black smoke that reeked of death. After that he had been as well as if he had never been sick.

And so now they were here. Sitting in the sand as the camp was made for the night. Staring at the Nazgûl with horror, revulsion, and just a teeny bit of curiosity.

"Sooooo….tell us about yourself…" Sirius drawled. The wraith's head twitched to the side.

"Thou dost not order me, wizardling," it replied snippily. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"What's your name?" Harry asked.

"I am Hathalmyrn, Master," the phantom said, its voice the pinnacle of subservience.

"So…Hathalmyrn…what do…Nazgûl do?" Harry asked awkwardly.

"I serve my master. That has not changed with the transferring of my bond," Hathalmyrn replied. Harry rubbed his hands over his face tiredly.

"If it was the magic between your connections that kept you all alive, how do you still exist?" Harry finally asked.

"The ring of power that I was given did not stop being a ring of power when its connection to my mast-…ah…my previous master was lost. Still does it sustain me," came the quiet reply.

"What happens if you take it off?" Lucius asked. Hathalmyrn growled lowly.

"I do not answer to _Golug_ fools!" he hissed. Harry snapped his fingers at the wraith.

"Answer the question!" Harry called impatiently. Hathalmyrn was quiet, seeming to deflate a bit. His gauzy black cloak was drawn tightly around himself as if to ward off some unknown chill.

"It depends on the will of my master. If thou wishes it, I will disappear, my spirit scattered upon the wind. I can exist without the ring, if it is allowed of me. But I am stronger when I wear it," Hathalmyrn said. Harry looked at Sirius.

"What do you think we should do about this?" he asked. Sirius looked at the wraith with critical eyes.

"I don't like the stupid thing. It almost killed me," Sirius said harshly. He saw the creature's posture changing. The thing cringed far too easily. It figured that they would get a Nazgûl to use, and get the sickly abused one. Typical. "But it's still one of the Dork Lord's creations. One to us is one less to him. I say we keep it and use it to our advantage."

"I will fight for my master. Thy enemies would fall before me. I speak the language of the Orcs. And they do fall to the Black Fever as easily as men," Hathalmyrn said. Harry ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stick out ridiculously.

"I suppose the best thing to do would be to keep it for now. But I tell you now, Hathalmyrn," Harry said, holding up his hand when the wraith appeared to get excited. "Do _not_ make any of this company sick with that god-forsaken fever, or I'll take your ring off myself and blow your soul out of your arse," Harry growled. Hathalmyrn sighed contentedly. Ah…now it felt just like home.

Sirius stood from the sand, brushing a few flecks from his bottom as he walked away from the group. Orion was sitting with the Blue Wizards at a magical fire, talking quietly to them. He looked up as Sirius approached, smiling at his father and still happy to see him well.

"We're keeping the Nazgûl," Sirius said. Pollando put a hand to his head.

"Why in Eru's name would you do that?" he asked incredulously. Sirius scoffed.

"Why the hell _not?_ How many armies of Men can say they have a frigging _Nazgûl_ on their team? Uh…none except us. So Harry's gonna keep old Hathalmyrn around," Sirius replied. Alatar was mumbling to himself, rubbing at his temples as though he had a massive headache.

"This is stupid," Orion muttered. Sirius grinned.

"Besides…think about how pissed off Sauron is going to be when he finds out!"

* * *

Sauron was angry.

No….angry wasn't a good description of his present mood.

Sauron was blindingly, blood-boilingly, bone-chillingly, head-blowingly _furious._ Khamûl knelt before him, trembling in terror at his master's ire.

"You are a _sorry_ excuse for a servant! I told you I _did not_ want Hathalmyrn lost to us! Do you even _know_ how much this has cost? How far this is going to set me back? I can't even begin to fathom the amount of _stupidity_ it takes to be bested by _mortals!_" Sauron seethed, not fully realizing the irony of his statement. "I just…I can't even…I am…" Sauron had never been so livid in all of his existence. He could _feel_ the absence of the lost Nazgûl. Their presence was a source of strength for him, a remainder of some of his old power. Now one of the Nine was gone, unable to feed his power. Good thing it had only been Hathalmyrn. Had it been Khamûl instead…or…Morgoth forbid….even Murazor, he might not have been able to hold his solid body.

As it were he was feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges.

"Get out of my sight. Go to Murazor. Tell him what has happened and tell him your punishment is his to deliver. If I try to punish you now I will end up ripping you apart and tossing your festering bones into Orodruin," Sauron hissed. Khamûl hesitated but a moment before he felt the sharp tip of his master's boot catch him under his rib cage, sending him flying across the room. He took to his feet as soon as he could get them underneath him, fleeing the presence of his master before he could change his mind and block him from existence.

What a terrible day.

* * *

At the insistence of the easily-worn orc cousins, the group rested. Merry and Pippin were kept under close watch by several of the Uruks. Hugi, the educated Uruk, had somehow retrieved his pack from the orcs that had held him, and was at present sitting far away from all of them, reading a book intently. Every so often Merry would hear him make a noise of surprise or amusement at whatever the subject of the book was.

"I wonder if they taste good," One of the lean Uruks said, looking at Pippin in a way he did not like at all. The female Uruk growled.

"If you try to take a bite it will be your arse that the wizard fries. You back off of the little rats right now!" she snarled. The leader grabbed her braid, jerking her off-balance and tilting her head back.

"You got a soft spot for the little rats?" he growled at her, showing teeth. Her hand shot out, slapping him soundly across his broad face. Silence reigned in the camp. Even Merry and Pippin were deathly quiet as they watched the interaction. "You will pay _dearly_ for that, wench!"

His fist crashed into her face, knocking her cleanly off of her feet and onto her back in front of Merry. Merry pulled his legs up slightly so that she would not hit them. He saw her pale green eyes roll back for a moment before she attempted to get back to her feet. The large Uruk was on top of her then, pinning her to the grass with his body weight.

"Show her who's boss!" one of the orcs called.

"The only place a bitch belongs is on 'er back!" another hissed. Egged on by the calls, the lead Uruk grasped at the ties of the female's leggings. She roared at him in anger, and succeeded in slashing him across the face before he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her head against the ground. Merry was so close he could reach forward and touch both of them. Terror glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and he could feel Pippin trembling beside him.

The female fought him for several tense minutes, clawing and scratching as she received dizzying blows to her face and head. Finally he caught one of her hands in his, squeezing it in a crushing grasp until they heard several sickening cracks. She howled in agony as her defeat was on her. The ties of her leggings were jerked open and he grasped them roughly, jerking them down her hips as he reached for the ties of his own pants.

Merry turned his head away, shame and horror burning his face. Her howl turned quite suddenly into a piercing scream. He could hear the sounds of the orcs and other Uruks laughing, jeering and shouting crude things as the Uruk made sport of the female. Tears stained his face as he heard the ragged screams of anguish. There was a perverse sound of flesh meeting flesh that Merry knew was burned into his memory.

_Nobody deserves that. Not even an Uruk lady…_ Merry thought to himself.

It seemed to go on forever. After a while her fight was gone, leaving only the hollow acceptance and pitiful cries of pain. The Uruk thrust once more, his back arching as he found completion and emptied himself inside of her. He withdrew and tucked himself away, sneering down at her.

"If you like the shire rats so much you can carry one of them. You got five minutes to get yourself together or I will whip you until your entrails fall out through your back. Then I'll feed you to the wolves," he snarled, spitting on her as he walked away. She rolled to her side and then to her knees, pulling up the leggings and tying them again. The dark brown skin of her hand was turning purple and black with bruises, but she finally made it to her feet. The other Uruks watched her, sneering smiles on their faces as she stumbled mightily. She looked down at the hobbits.

Merry braved a look at her, and felt his heart break. There were several cuts on her face from her fight with the lead Uruk. Her bottom lip was split and black blood smudged her chin. Tears had cut trails in the grime on her face, and her whole body trembled with pain. She reached down and grabbed Merry, slipping his arms over her head as the other had done. Pippin's same captor had picked him up again, and the company was on the move within minutes. Merry could feel her shoulders heaving as she ran.

"You did not deserve that, lady," he said into her ear. Her head tilted slightly as she ran, and she bared her teeth.

"Shut it."

"Nobody deserves that. Ladies should be treated with kindness and respect," Merry continued, his voice gentle at the side of her head.

"I am not a lady. I am an Uruk of Isengard," she grunted.

"My lady Uruk…I know several people who would treat you kindly. They are good folk and would never harm a female, not matter what race she was," Merry insisted. The Uruk snorted, but was silent for a few minutes before she spoke.

"What is kindness?" Merry felt his eyes sting with tears. What is kindness? Oh Eru…what foul things the wizard Saruman had done…what foul acts he had done upon these people…

"Kindness is being considerate of others. It is not hurting people…it is gentleness to another creature," he said.

"I do not know kindness," she said gruffly. Merry looked slightly to the side and made sure none of the others were watching, before he leaned his head forward and kissed the female on the cheek. She gasped softly at the contact.

"Now you do," he said softly. A strange idea came to him. "Help us escape, lady. Help us away and we will take you from these who are unkind to you. Will you do this?" he asked, his voice low in her ear. She hitched him up a little on her back as they ran, and he did not hear her speak for several minutes. He was afraid she would tell on him to the leader.

"We will wait until the time is better. You will show me more kindness if I help you?" she asked. Merry tilted his head again and gave her another quick kiss on the cheek. She smelled of sweat and dirt, and it was unpleasant to kiss her face, but he could quickly get over it if it meant an escape.

"My lady, all the kindness I can give will be yours if you will help us," Merry said insistently. Once again she was quiet for a while before she spoke. It was almost too quiet for him to hear.

"I will help."

* * *

Hope seemed long forgotten in Rohan. It was not an easy place to be for an elf. Especially one who had just returned from a land of joy and peace. Gríma was a foul thing, always leering at any female who was of any attraction at all. And the way he treated the young wizard girl was atrocious. She was an object of little respect to him, little better than a dog to an unkind master. He beat her and used her body, and yet there was a fire in her eyes that did not go out. She was most amazing in this regard.

And the lady wizard did not take her treatment without little revenges of her own. Sometimes Gríma had her serve him his dinner in his rooms, and Celebrían had discovered that she would have the dogs lick his bread before placing it on the plate. Once she saw her mix something into Gríma's food. It did not happen immediately, but the word in the Meduseld had been that later that night he had awoken with terrible stomach cramps, and had not been able to stray far from the outhouse.

And she was never caught. That was what made it so impressive.

Théoden King was deeply under Gríma's shadows, and lady Éowyn was too busy skirting around the Wormtongue to notice much in the palace. But no one could get close enough to the King to help him. Gríma was either at his side or close enough to appear like an oily shadow if someone even breathed towards the king. It was disheartening.

The lady wizard sat at her feet as she mended a tunic that had been ripped. Some of the other ladies had heard of her prowess with a needle and often brought more difficult jobs to her. They were perfectly capable of the small things and even a few more decorative details, but she was quite adept with a needle and it had shown in her work. She absent-mindedly reached down and stroked at the girl's hair as she rested a cramp in her hand.

Draca exulted in the attention, having never had a mother in her life. She had never taken her grandfather for granted, but this gentle feminine energy was quite soothing. A mother might have been nice to have…

"I wonder what my own children are up to? I do feel guilty for not seeking them out…but I feel that it is here that I should be first. There will be other time. They must still feel that I am in Valinor, and so their thoughts are not on me right now. All the same…they will be most upset when they find out," Celebrían said softly. Draca looked up into Celebrían's face as the hand stopped stroking her hair.

_Surely they will understand,_ She projected the thought.

"Oh, I'm sure they will eventually. But they all have their father's temper when the time is right. Gloriously long-suffering….but eventually that patience disappears, and the explosion is remarkable. It's rather like Mithrandir's fireworks," she said fondly.

_I miss Gandalf. I have not seen him for years. I thought I felt his magic a while back, but I believe it was wishful thinking,_ Draca thought aloud.

"He is great company….except for the smoke…" Celebrían returned, wrinkling up her nose a bit. Draca laughed softly. The door to the chamber they were in opened suddenly, and Celebrían found herself looking into the cold eyes of the King's advisor.

"Ladies…I hate to interrupt what must be such a deep and thought-provoking moment," he sneered. "But I require Ithilrhas to attend me," he said.

"I required her presence for a while, Lord Gríma," Celebrían said tartly. Gríma's cold blue eyes fell on her face, narrowing slightly.

"Perhaps you would like to attend me in her stead then, fair lady?" he purred dangerously. Draca stood quickly to her feet when Celebrían gasped slightly. She touched the elf's shoulder for comfort and then walked to the door where Gríma stood. They exited without another exchange, and Celebrían found her blood boiling when the door was shut. Her revenge was swift and merciless, yet hardly lethal or exciting.

The next morning Gríma awoke with a case of loud flatulence that reeked like death and rendered him incapable of seeing to the king. No one would stay in his presence long, and his stomach cramped terribly along with it.

And while Celebrían attended the new hurts on Draca's body, they both laughed until tears appeared in their eyes. And once the tears started, they did not stop for a while.

* * *

Ten pages in MS Word. A monster of a chapter with a lot of effort in it. I really hope you guys liked it. I hope to hear some feedback this time. I have not forgotten about the cameos that were won. They are being developed as I write, and their scenes are drawing close. I will make sure to point out when they appear.

Follow, favorite, but honestly I hope you guys review. It really does mean a lot to me.


	22. Of Traitors and Trees

Sweet baby Ray's! You guys didn't disappoint me with reviews this chapter. I love it! Love it so much! Now this chapter fairly follows the movie in some ways, but in others it is extremely different. You'll see. Not much to say about this except I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

* * *

Chapter 22 – Of Traitors and Trees

Éowyn sat beside the still, injured body of her cousin Théodred. Éomer had brought him back this morning, one of three survivors of his entire éored. The other two were ensconced in the Hall of Healing, under the eyes of the Master healer. Théodred had been brought into Edoras to heal and was being seen to by the physician that was kept on retainer for the royal family. His hand was cold in Éowyn's hand and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the top of his wrist.

"Oh, Théodred…" she sighed softly. The King's son stirred slightly, grunting and pinching his face in pain. His lips moved, but no sound escaped. Éowyn looked up to see Éomer standing in the doorway. He had been the one to find their cousin among the wreckage of the attack that had cost so many good men their lives. Éomer had a forbidding look on his face as he watched his cousin slowly dying. And he did not have much hope in a recovery. There was little hope to be had these days.

"Come, Éowyn. We need to speak to uncle," he said suddenly. Éowyn frowned, moving her thumb over Théodred's fingers.

"Why? He will not take action. Gríma has him too far gone for that. The only thing we will succeed in doing is leaving Théodred alone," she replied.

"I will stay with him, my Lord, my Lady," said a gentle voice. Éomer turned to see a young woman standing behind him, her hair covered with a headscarf. She was pretty, with stunning blue eyes and fair skin. Éomer had seen her a few times around the Meduseld, doing small chores and mending clothes. He had just gotten back a repaired tunic that he had thought ruined.

"What is your name?" Éomer asked gruffly. He trusted few people with his cousin in such a state.

"I am Rían, Lord Éomer," she replied, clasping her hands in front of her and bowing slightly. "I was trained in healing for a few years. If you would like I can sit with him," she said.

"I don't want him to be alone, Éomer," he heard Éowyn say softly. He studied the brilliant eyes of the blonde in front of him, trying to see if he could spot any deceit in her. He could not.

"Very well. Come, sister, and we will speak with Théoden King," Éomer said, turning and walking away. Éowyn stood from her cousin's bedside, reaching forward and smoothing his blonde hair from his forehead before leaning down and kissing his brow. Then she hurried after her brother. Celebrían entered the room when they left, approaching the bed and glancing at its occupant.

"I hope they are all right," she said softly.

* * *

The throne room was darkened as they approached their uncle on his throne. All of the windows had been covered with thick curtains, and the fires were not lit. Gríma said that the medicine that the King had to take made him sensitive to the heat and light. Éowyn thought he was full of shit. He had recently started to smell like it, too.

Théoden sat weakly on his throne. His hair and beard were pale and unkempt, his eyes rheumy and unseeing for a few moments. He did focus on the siblings that entered, and even managed to give his niece a small smile as she stepped forward.

"Your son is badly injured, my Lord," Éowyn said without preamble. Théoden's bushy eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Théodred is off with his éored, scouting at the Fords of Isen," Théoden replied weakly.

"He was ambushed by orcs," Éomer supplied. Théoden's eyebrows drew close and he bowed his head slightly as if he were thinking hard on something. "If we do not defend our country, uncle, then Saruman will take it by force!"

"That is a lie!" Gríma melted out of the shadows like a greasy serpent, his eyes narrowed at Éomer. "Saruman the White has ever been a friend and ally to Rohan."

"Orcs are roaming freely across our lands. Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will. Orcs bearing the white hand of Saruman," Éomer said firmly, and pulled a helmet from the crook of his arm underneath his cloak. He dropped it on the step in front of his uncle. The helmet was of orcish make and painted with a crudely drawn white hand.

"Why do you lay these burdens on an already troubled mind?" Gríma asked with his oily voice.

"Saruman would not join forces with orcs any more than I would," Théoden said weakly.

"Uncle, please," Éowyn said, a sobbing hitch to her voice. Théoden seemed to sit up a bit straighter at the sound of her distress. "Théodred is here, injured. He _needs_ you."

"If the King's son is injured, then it is no fault of Saruman! How are we to know that it wasn't you and your men that attacked the King's son! You only seek an uprising that would weaken all of Rohan. Your uncle is wearied by your malcontent, your warmongering…" Gríma said firmly. "My Lord…do you not remember what we discussed? It is happening as I said."

Théoden looked at Éomer, his pale eyes narrowed in consternation. But Éomer was quite lividly focused on Gríma. He reached forward and grabbed the man by the throat, nearly lifting him off of his feet.

"Warmongering?" he roared. "How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Gríma? When all the men are dead, will you take your share of the treasure?" Éomer snarled. He was suddenly grabbed from behind by a guard and dragged away from Gríma. Éowyn gasped, moving aside.

"There is much you do not know, Éomer, son of Éomund," Gríma said sibilantly. "Too much. You are banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Rohan and all its domains under pain of death."

Éowyn cried in surprise and Éomer pulled one of his arms free, delivering a devastating punch to Gríma's face that knocked the man to the floor. Another guard advanced, punching Éomer soundly in the gut and forcing out his breath.

"You have no authority here. Your orders mean nothing!" Éomer wheezed. The guard punched him again. Gríma stood from his stooped position, blood spattered on his face. He reached into his robes and withdrew a paper, unraveling it before Éomer's eyes.

"This order does not come from me. It comes from the king. He signed it this morning," he said with a smile. Éomer turned to his uncle, a shocked look on his face.

"Uncle!" he gasped.

"I do what is best for Rohan," Théoden replied. Gríma smiled.

"Of course you do, your majesty," he purred. The guards bodily dragged Éomer from the throne room while Éowyn watched, her face pale. She looked at Gríma and he looked at her. Then the King spoke.

"Take me to Théodred. Take me to my son."

* * *

It was dark when the orcs had to rest again. He could hear many of the Uruks complaining about the inferior staying power of their scrawny cousins. Merry and Pippin were put on the ground to give their carriers a small break. Merry looked over at the forest they were skirting, wondering vaguely why they didn't just cut through the woods. Ah well, no one ever said orcs were smart…

"We ain't going no further until we've had a breather!" one of the orcs reiterated.

"Shut the fuck up, _snaga._ We've stopped," one of the Uruks growled.

"Get a fire going," the lead uruk thundered. Then he turned to the female Uruk that had carried Merry. "Get over here, Nalt," he snarled. She bared her teeth at him, snarling a challenge. "You'll get over here if you don't want another broke hand. I told you you'd pay _dearly_ for striking me, and I mean to make good on my promise. Don't want anyone thinking the Uruks aren't good on their word!" he sneered.

She glared at him for several more moments, before he made a motion towards her. She scampered towards him suddenly, stopping just out of his reach. He lunged at her, tackling her to the ground and knocking her breath from her. Then he made a repeat performance of his treatment of her at their previous stop. Merry and Pippin looked away, their stomachs turned at the sounds of her anguish. When he had reached his completion he grabbed her by the hair, dragging her to where the hobbits were.

"You have guard duty," he grunted. Then he squatted down next to her shuddering form. "And you might want to cover yourself up. One of the _snaga_ is eyeing your cunt. I don't think much of their stamina, but if you get several of the little buggers over here we might actually get a show!" he laughed cruelly.

Nalt rolled again, quickly pulling up her leggings and sitting near the hobbits.

"I'm starvin'! We ain't had nothing but maggoty bread and that piss-bitter draught for three stinkin' days!" one of the Uruks growled lowly. An orc heard his complaint and raised its ugly head.

"Yeah! Why can't we have some meat?" he asked in a nasally voice. He looked over to where Nalt kept watch over the hobbits. "What about them? They're fresh."

"They are not for eating," the lead Uruk grunted, still rather mellow from his sport with Nalt. Another orc popped up, its mouth dripping as it eyed the hobbits.

"What about their legs? They don't need those. Ooh, they look tasty," it grunted, stepping forward. Nalt came into action, lurching painfully to her feet and delivering a stunning blow to the orc that knocked it back into its fellows.

"Get back, scum!" she growled. The orcs eyed her warily. Apparently even the injured bitches were still quite dangerous in this bigger breed…

The lead Uruk spat on the ground as he watched Nalt defend the little rats. "The prisoners go to Saruman. Alive and unspoiled."

"Why alive?" The second orc asked, wiping a bit of black blood from his face. "Do they give good sport? Will the wizard have them fucked? Do wizards fuck?" The orc asked.

"They have something. An Elvish weapon. The master wants it for the war," the Uruk said, his broad nose wrinkling at the thought of his master fucking anything. Merry and Pippin exchanged glances. Sweet Eru above…they thought they were carrying the Ring! And if they found out they were not…Pippin glanced nervously at the first orc, grimacing at the thought of being eaten.

Another orc had sneaked close to them, and Pippin gasped as it bared its teeth.

"Just a mouthful…" it hissed, slavering like a dog. "A bit off the flank!" The lead Uruk turned his way, drawing his sword and separating the orc's head from its shoulders with a broad swipe. The head bounced away and Pippin squealed as he was struck with some of the arterial spray before the body keeled over. Then the Uruk grinned nastily,

"Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys!" he laughed, and the orcs and Uruks charged the fresh carcass in a frenzy. Suddenly Nalt grabbed Merry under one arm and Pippin under the other, moving swiftly and heading for the cover of the forest. A leg was stuck out in her way, and she tripped, spilling them all on the ground. She moaned in pain and turned to see one of the orcs holding a knife at her.

"Well, well. What have we here? The one with the pretty cunt has designs on the little rats? I wonder what Dhaub will give me for the information?" he asked, grinning at her. Merry reached down and grabbed her good hand between his bound ones, squeezing the fingers gently. "Perhaps he'll tie you down and let me fuck you? You're pretty enough for an Uruk whore. Maybe I'll fuck every hole you've got…then when I'm done, I'll knife you a few times, and fuck those holes. Oh yes…that sounds like a plan," he growled. He turned his head to call for the lead Uruk, when brown hands grabbed either side of his head and twisted sharply, snapping his neck. Hugi stood behind him, and dusted off his hands.

"He was moderately exasperating. I daresay if we're going to escape, we might want to get while the getting is good," he said with a nod, reaching down and picking up Merry. Nalt just looked at him. "I hear hooves. We should go in three, two, one-,"

A spear suddenly erupted in the back of an orc, and with the thundering sound of hooves and the war-calls of horses and men, a group of soldiers exploded into the midst of the orc and Uruk company. And while they battled each other, two Uruks and two hobbits disappeared into the forest.

* * *

All day Phelan had been with Gismblog, making rounds and recruiting people to take on their delegation. They were not fools, any of them. While he brought several mothers and their children of varying ages, he also brought a few of his younger warriors along, and several of his guard of Riders to protect the same women and children he now was packing up. He also brought along a few Warf pups. There was a litter of the breed good for riding that had just been weaned, their spindly legs like colts as they bounded excitedly to and fro. They would not be ridden for some time yet. And there were also a few of the smaller breeds, better for pet companions along, including a newer breed that had been the result of a few genetic mutations. They were adorably tiny and reminded him of the Toy breeds of dogs that many women had been fond of back in the old world.

James was now sitting on a Warf, looking incredibly uncomfortable. The Warf could sense his nervousness and was dancing in agitation, its head tugging at the leather harness it wore. Boromir was riding a horse. Their horses were not the most impressive things. They were descended from horses that had been saved from being put down due to lameness or found wandering if their masters were dead. They did their job, though, and were treated well.

They now had a delegation of around sixty people. There were nine mothers, each with one child, and Gismblog had also brought along Arrina, who had two twin Uruk boys. He had a diverse mix of young half-orcs and half-Uruks, wanting to represent both groups equally. Some of the protectors he had brought along were of his younger warriors. And Phelan had also chosen several of the younger female warriors as well.

Drengcwen was one of their most promising young female warriors. At first glance she seemed shy, but Phelan had found that her quietness hid a great watchfulness. She was unassuming in looks. The soft grey color of orc-kind and the dark-blonde hair of many that were descended from Rohirrim. Her mother had been found in the plains of Rohan, having been turned out of her home by her family when she had gotten pregnant with an orc-child. How people could be so callous to someone who was hurting so badly emotionally he would never understand…but nevertheless she had been found and brought to the Redling Village. When Drengcwen was born, her mother never held her. She never looked on the face of her child. The babe, quiet and fiercely fighting, had been named 'Warrior Queen' in her mother's native tongue. The woman had left as soon as she had been physically able.

Drengcwen was different from many of her own peers in the fact that she had inherited human-colored eyes. It was not unheard of, but it was not common either. Set in her grey face were eyes of brilliant blue, vibrant and keen. He had brought the young warrior, only fourteen summers, along because of her quiet maturity and skill with weaponry. Her dexterity with the sword was simple but deadly, and she had a good eye for archery as well.

Phelan looked up at the barking of one of the Warfs to see James abandon his leather reigns in favor of wrapping his arms around the wolf in a desperate attempt to hold on. Of course, this made the Warf even more nervous, causing the wolf to start trying to buck him from its back. A few of the other Redling Riders were snickering. Phelan nudged his own wolf forward and grabbed the reigns of the wolf with a sharp bark. The wolf's eyes were wild and nervous as James sat back a little.

"James. You are a frigging _dragon._ You fell off of the topmost Quidditch ring that one time we all played drunk Quidditch our seventh year. Silver is one of our more mellow wolves and you are making her nervous. Imagine you're on a broom. A furry, four-legged broom," Phelan said, before putting the reigns back in James' hand. James made a face.

"This is going to be such a long trip…" he mumbled. Boromir, who was sitting nearby on his horse, grinned at the misfortune of the dragon.

"Come now, Naurlam…surely you aren't _afraid_ of a little wolf?" Boromir asked. James looked over at Boromir, an un-amused look on his face.

"My wolf is as big as your horse. Shut your trap," he growled. Boromir sniggered. "You know what? Fuck this…Phelan! Get me a broom!" he snapped, tossing his leg over the back of the wolf and dismounting. The Warg pranced away from him in relief as he stood on his good leg.

"I don't have any enchanted brooms, James," Phelan explained as another Redling chased down James' fleeing wolf.

"Doesn't have to be enchanted. I'll enchant it myself," he said stubbornly. "I'd just use my wings, but I have to be up too high for that, and I'd rather not alarm the Rohirrim more than necessary," James said. "I'm already a dragon wizard who breaths fire."

James was brought a simple straw broom. It was plain, but it was new and fresh. He stared at it for a few moments before he held it out in front of him. Many eyes were on him as he worked. Energy crackled and arced around his hands as he poured magic into the broom. When he was finished, he gently placed the newly sparkling broom down on the ground, careful not to bend his injured leg too much. Then he stood at the side of the broom and held out his hand.

"Up!" he commanded. The broom lurched obediently into his hand, and he held it level before swinging a leg over. He floated languidly in the air, just high enough that his feet didn't scrape the ground. "And boom goes the dynamite," James grinned. Phelan just shook his head with a grin.

"Showoff."

* * *

"Do you think the soldiers will come into the trees?" Hugi asked nervously, fiddling with the knife he had put on his belt.

"I do not hear them," Nalt replied. Then she sat Merry and Pippin down, before drawing her own knife and cutting their bonds. They stood, rubbing feeling back into their hands for a few moments, before Merry looked up into Nalt's face.

"You were treated with cruelty again," he said softly. She merely sheathed her dagger and shrugged slightly.

"I am used to it," she replied. He took her hand and leaned gallantly over the top of her hand, pressing a gentlemanly kiss on her fingers. Nalt felt something strange in her cheeks, like they were warm when the rest of her felt fine.

"You do realize that if we are caught by the Master, he will have us exterminated in most disagreeable ways?" Hugi asked suddenly. Nalt shuddered.

"Perhaps no one will notice that there are two of us missing from the numbers of the dead?" she suggested. Hugi shrugged.

"Regardless, we should leave the premises promptly. I shall ascend a tree to perceive which way will take us _away _from the Men with massive javelins." And with that he took to a tree, beginning a quick ascent up the branches. Pippin had a very uneasy feeling about this forest. Something was not right. He watched the Uruk climb, and saw movement on the tree. It was sudden…one moment he was looking at plain bark, the next he was looking into deep eyes set into the tree.

There was movement as the tree came to life, reaching up a wooden arm to pluck Hugi off of what appeared to be its face. Nalt roared in confusion as the fibrous fingers constricted the other Uruk's arms.

"Flee!" Hugi managed to strangle out. Nalt grabbed the hobbit's hands and turned to go, but the tree took a step forward and grabbed all three in its other hand, lifting them up as well.

"Many orcs, _ba-la-rum,_" the tree spoke in a slow, stilting voice, looking at them with disdain. Nalt's pale green eyes were wide with terror. Was this tree going to make sport with them? She trembled at the thought of such a large creature taking her.

"It's talking! The tree is talking!" Pippin exclaimed. The tree looked vaguely insulted.

"Tree? I am no tree. I am an ent," it replied. Hugi gasped.

"An Onodrim! A tree-herder!" he said. The ent looked surprised, glancing slowly at Hugi.

"Few and far are those who know us, _harrum,_" he replied. "Treebeard some call me."

"And whose side are you on?" Merry asked tentatively. Treebeard squeezed the three in his hand and gave a creaking frown.

"Side? I am on nobody's side, because nobody's on my side, little orc. Nobody cares for the woods anymore," he said.

"We care! We care greatly for the great old forests!" Pippin gasped. "We are also not orcs! We are hobbits!" he said. Treebeard tilted his face.

"All of you?" he asked. Merry and Pippin looked at each other. Merry looked up at Nalt's face. Her brown skin was drained of color, and she looked almost grey. She was frightened.

"Please, Lord Treebeard….you were right. I am the orc. The others are Hobbits…please let them go, and take me in their stead!" Merry said, drawing himself up. Tears sparkled in his eyes. Treebeard blinked, looking at them all.

"I do not know what Hobbits are. This sounds like orc mischief to me!" he said, looking a bit upset. "They come with fire, they come with axes, gnawing, biting, breaking, hacking, burning. Destroyers and usurpers. Curse them!"

"Please, Lord Treebeard! They are Hobbits. Halflings, shirefolk!" Merry begged. Treebeard merely grumbled slightly.

"Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't. The white wizard will know." Merry looked at his cousin in horror.

"The white wizard?" he asked in fear. There was a soft sound of distress above him, and Merry looked up to see tears sparkling on Nalt's grimy face. He managed to move his hand slightly, entwining his fingers with hers and trying to give her comfort.

"He will have them make sport of me until I lay dead on the ground," she whispered.

"No. We will not let him take you without a fight!" Merry exclaimed. She looked down, amazed at the courage of such a little thing. Treebeard moved then, walking through the forest. He held them evenly as he walked, and Nalt found her terror rising with each step. By the time he stopped her chest was heaving with sobs and she tried desperately to fight Treebeard's strong fingers.

They were suddenly dropped to the leafy ground. Merry grabbed the panicking Nalt, hugging her face towards his chest with tenderness and stroking her dirty hair. His other hand grabbed Pippin and pulled him close as well, trying to protect both of them with his own body.

"My, what touching sacrifice," said a soft, deep voice. Merry looked up slowly and gasped.

There before him stood the White Wizard.

* * *

*Angels sing* And they're finally in Fangorn! Please let me know how that turned out! It's getting much more difficult to keep main parts of the story intact with the drastic changes I've made. I'm not complaining, per se, but I would like to know if you guys think that the same stuff that I thought made sense does in fact make sense.

Drengcwen is the realization of Sakari13Lennie's character cameo. She wanted a half-orc of Rohirric blood whose defining features were her human blue eyes and skill with weapons. I hope I was able to portray this character how you wanted, Sakari, and she will be with them in Rohan. :)

Let me know if you enjoyed it!


	23. The Depth of Heart

Such wonderful responses. I'm glad you all enjoyed the bit with the cameo last chapter. I've still got another one waiting in the wings, and it will be very soon. I skipped several things here to make the story progress and get everyone where I needed them to be. Honestly we all know what happened in those areas. I'm not posting a whole section of stuff we already know. I will only post a scene if there is a significant change due to my plot devices.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the newest installment! Please review, I got so many great ones last chapter!

* * *

Chapter 23 – The Depth of Heart

He sat near a camp fire, watching as several of the little ones played together in the grass. The wolves had moved into a large circle around their camp, every other one dozing intermittently as they kept guard with their riders. Boromir sat near Talun in silence, staring into the crackling flame as they rested for the evening. James was nearby with Phelan and Gismblog, telling a lively story of the Wolfmaster when they were teenagers. The grey-haired Phelan was flushed with mortification and James' hands gestured wildly. He winced when a particularly eager gesture pulled at his nearly-healed arrow wounds.

Boromir reached up and rested a hand on his own shoulder. What magic had been wrought to cause these wounds to heal so quickly? He was amazed. In only three days his shoulder and side were nearly fully healed, relieved by the fragrant pastes that had apparently been a recipe of the wolf-wizard.

"Tell me more about the White City," Talun said suddenly. Boromir grinned.

"The white city is never more beautiful than when the evening sun lights up the white stone…"

One of the little toy breed wolfs was gnawing at a bone as it sat between the paws of a riding Warf, its sharp little teeth clicking against its chew toy fervently. James had finished his story and moved just to the outer ring of the guards, looking toward Rohan.

"Is something wrong, master dragon?" a Redling rider asked. James shook his head.

"I am uneasy. I sense nothing of danger…but something is about to happen. I feel it in my scales," James said, looking out over the dark grasslands. He saw a bit of movement leaving the ring of guards, and turned his head to see Boromir and Talun walking away, their hands entwined between them.

"What a strange couple," the same Rider commented, following James' line of sight. James smiled wistfully.

"I have seen stranger things. I wish them both nothing but happiness, though I know that hardship will fall heavily on them soon. Perhaps one day we can all exist together?" he asked. The Redling did not comment, but watched as the couple disappeared behind a rock outcrop.

At least someone would have a joyous night.

* * *

Théodred was dead. Éomer was banished. Théoden King was buried under shadow. And Éowyn was all alone. Gríma's attention had turned to her again, shadowing her footsteps and her life. And each time she felt like he was going to do something terrible, the Green Lady would appear, doing something to draw Gríma's ire to herself. She walked with a limp now, her staff being made functional.

Ithilrhas and the lady Rían seemed very close, and so it came as little surprise when she snuck to see her uncle and found them both with him. The stone on the tip of the woman's staff was glowing, and Rían was muttering under her breath. Éowyn watched from the shadows, entranced. To the casual observer they were merely in conversation, Ithilrhas leaning on her staff and Rían bowing towards the King as she spoke.

There was something heavy in the air, tingly and dangerous. It was distracting, and she didn't see until it was too late the shadow that crept up on the two women.

"What a merry sight we see here!"

Ithilrhas paused, the light on her staff flickering out as Rían stood tall. Théoden sat up a little straighter, giving his advisor a wan look.

"Ithilrhas was telling a story to me, trying to keep an old man's mind from his troubles. Rían was singing a song she learned from the elves. Elves, Gríma! Long has it been since the people of Rohan had dealings with the elves, and I found her song soothing to my spirit," Théoden said.

"Anything that makes my King feel better in these dark days is welcome indeed," Gríma said.

"My only comfort has been that I got to say goodbye to my son. And sweet Ithilrhas made it possible for me," Théoden said. Gríma turned to the lady wizard, a smile plastered on his face. She swallowed hard, her body shuddering involuntarily.

"And how did she help you, my Lord?" he asked.

"I don't know exactly what it was, but when she laid her hand on me it was as though I had been swimming in dark water and finally broke the surface, if only for a bit. Maybe you should consult her with my healing," Théoden said hopefully. Gríma's smile turned dangerous, and Draca felt her knees go weak. Surely the king had just signed her death warrant without realizing it.

"My Lord…Ithilrhas will get what she deserves for her help," he promised. Théoden nodded.

"Yes, of course. Make sure her reward is just," he added. Gríma nodded in return, and Rían saw the little color in Draca's sickly face drain.

"My Lord…her reward will be to _die_ for," he purred.

* * *

"My Lord…Gandalf the Grey approaches."

Gríma would not lie to himself. He was nervous. Gandalf was the one person who could seriously screw up everything. Théoden's mind was not his own, but neither was it wholly Gríma's either. Ithilrhas had set him back in his plans. He hoped his last session with her had dissuaded her at last. He doubted she would be able to emerge from her rooms for several days. Her little friend could tend to her.

"He is a harbinger of woe," Gríma added. The doors opened then, allowing entrance to four figures. Gandalf entered first, standing straight and tall as he walked at the head of his motley group. Behind him were two tall figures, one with dark hair, the other with striking blond hair. A Dwarf walked beside the blond, a magnificent, intricately braided beard covering his cheeks and chin.

"The courtesy of your hall has somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King," Gandalf said, striding ever closer to the throne. Gríma sneered at the grey-cloaked wizard.

"He's not welcome here," he spoke softly to the King. Théoden seemed to shake his head slightly as if unsure of his next words.

"Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Greyhame? Do you bring more darkness to my kingdom? Does your grey cloak seek to drape over the very face of the sun over Rohan?" Théoden asked, his bushy brows lowering to glower at the cloaked figure.

"A just question, my liege. Late is the hour in which this conjuror chooses to appear. Lóthspell I name him, ill news is an ill guest!" Gríma said lowly, his anger boiling a bit. Gandalf looked at Gríma, and there was power in those blue eyes that made the advisor shudder.

"You are held wise, my friend Wormtongue, and are doubtless a great support to your master," answered Gandalf in a soft voice. "Yet in two ways may a man come with evil tidings. He may be a worker of evil; or he may be such as leaves well alone, and comes only to bring aid in time of need,"

"That is so, but there is a third kind: pickers of bones, meddlers in other men's sorrows, carrion-fowl that grow fat on war. What aid have you ever brought, Stormcrow? And what aid do you bring now? It was aid from us that you sought last time that you were here. Then my lord bade you choose any horse that you would and be gone; and to the wonder of all you took Shadowfax in your insolence. My lord was sorely grieved; yet to some it seemed that to speed you from the land the price was not too great. I guess that it is likely to turn out the same once more: you will seek aid rather than render it. Do you bring men? Do you bring horses, swords, spears? That I would call aid; that is our sent need. But who are these that follow at your tail? Three ragged wanderers in grey, and you yourself the most beggar-like of the four!" Gríma said snottily. Théoden merely regarded the conversation between the two with tired eyes.

"The wise speak only of what they know, Gríma son of Gálmód. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm," he said, holding his staff forward. Gríma inhaled sharply.

"His staff! I told you to take the wizard's staff!" he cried. Several guards rushed forward to intercept Gandalf, and the three that had accompanied him sprang into action.

Legolas dispatched a guard easily, and twisted from the grip of another that tried to grasp him from behind. He saw Gimli kick the knees out from under a man that had tried to go for Aragorn's back, and the ranger in question was quite effectively grappling with another. They could see the door warden, Háma, holding back yet another guard.

"Théoden, son of Thengel. Too long have you sat in the shadows," Gandalf spoke, continuing forward through the middle of the fight. Gríma tried to escape through the fray, but Legolas threw him to the ground and the dwarf put his boot on his chest.

There was a sudden change over the king. His pale eyes darkened maliciously and grin twisted itself on his face underneath his beard. It was an expression completely unlike any that had ever graced his face. He gave a dark, gravelly laugh.

"Does the Wise One seek to give counsel to Théoden King? I feel you are too late. His mind is not his own, and neither is his kingdom," Théoden growled.

"Hearken to me, Théoden King. You are a strong man of strong character. You had the power to fight this shadow all the while. Will you do so now?" Gandalf called, holding his staff up. Théoden growled.

"You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey!" he hissed.

Gandalf grabbed a handful of the grey fabric, and tossed it aside, revealing the white robe underneath.

* * *

Her eyes snapped open and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Celebrían was asleep next to her bed, her head covered and bowed. She knew the elleth had kept watch over her diligently, even going so far as to bring out an impressive looking dagger and tell her in no uncertain terms what would happen if Gríma tried to touch her again.

Draca swallowed a grunt as she grabbed her staff, standing on wobbly legs and walking through the door unsteadily before she put down the tip to catch herself. That magic...it was Him. She just knew it. What he wanted here, she could not guess. Did he find out that she had freed her magic? If he had he would probably kill her. Did he come to submerge the king's mind back under shadow? She would be upset if that were the case. It would mean every little step she'd brought him out was in vain.

The feeling of that strong magic was growing, and with it her anxiety grew as well. She was weak, her session with Gríma having left her almost incapacitated. The beating had been bad enough...He had kicked her like a misbehaving dog. He had taken a slender branch to the backs of her thighs and bottom, up between her shoulders and her arms. Then he had used her body with such force that she had blacked out halfway through. She had awoken in the room with Celebrían desperately tending the angry stripes across her back and thighs while crying.

She nearly tripped along a corner, heading where her senses were directing her. The...throne room? She heard raised voices coming from the throne room, and could see the King leaning forward in his throne, a strange dark look on his face. She made it to the door, gripping her staff as a lifeline. Her world tilted dangerously as she walked through the door.

And there he was.

He was standing tall, his robes glowing white in the dark room. His staff was raised toward the King, who cringed back in the tall throne. He raised the staff as if to strike the king, and she shot forward, sticking out her own staff and knocking his away. She stood in front of the King, a fierce look on her face as she glared at him. She could not focus on his face, because her vision was swimming, but she could imagine the look of anger and condescension. She knew he could not see her stitched mouth twisted down in a grimace beneath her scarf.

"Stand aside, Ithilrhas," he said firmly. She swallowed hard, feeling her knees go weak. She took a deep breath and stood on her own feet, trying to strike back at him with her own staff. He parried the blow effortlessly.

"Draca!"

Draca? Who knew her as that here? She did not look away from the blurry face of the white wizard.

"Stand down, my little wizardling," the white wizard intoned again. She shook her head, nearly falling over from the effort.

"See? She was never yours. She belongs to me! You think a change of color will avail you, Gandalf?" The King growled

Gandalf? Her light colored brows furrowed with concentration as she lifted her gaze to his face again. Her eyes slowly came into focus, and tears suddenly blurred everything again. It was Gandalf! But he was White...in her haze she could grasp no thoughts...they fled as water in a sieve...

Her grip on the slender cherry wood staff slackened, and she heard the wood clatter to the ground. She swayed spectacularly in front of the white wizard, before her entire body pitched forward.

Legolas shot forward, catching the falling green wizard in his arms as Gandalf faced the King again.

"I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound!" Gandalf said, scowling at this new turn of events. Not that he was complaining, but what was Ithilrhas doing here? He had hoped she had gone her own way before Saruman had completely lost it, but apparently she had not. Legolas was holding her tightly as they all watched the interaction between the possessed King and Gandalf.

Éowyn had entered shortly behind Draca, and moved forward to protect her uncle. A strong hand grasped her upper arm, holding her in place. She looked up into the face of Aragorn, her blue eyes desperate as she looked back at her uncle.

"Wait," Aragorn said shortly. They saw Théoden's face twist again, an unfamiliar expression to Éowyn.

"If you try to cast me out, Gandalf, then Théoden dies as well. He is not strong enough for the separation," the growling voice came from Théoden's mouth. Éowyn gave a small sound of dismay.

"You were not successful in killing me, Saruman. You will not kill him either!" Gandalf replied, his staff flaring brightly. Théoden lifted a gnarled hand to protect his eyes. Then he suddenly charged at Gandalf, coming out of his throne with shocking spryness. Gandalf's staff came down with a crack against the floor, knocking Théoden back into his throne. His body was stiff for a moment, before he slid bonelessly down into the seat. Aragorn let go of Éowyn, and she rushed to her uncle's side. His face seemed to transform before their eyes, smoothing away many of the deep wrinkles and making his eyes vibrant blue again. His unkempt hair and thin beard smoothed itself out.

He looked up at Éowyn, his dark blond brows furrowing.

"Éowyn, my sweet," he said softly, reaching up to touch her face. "I apologize for dismissing your concerns," he whispered. She threw her arms around his neck with a desperately relieved laugh. Théoden smiled into her hair, and when she withdrew from him he flexed his hands as if marveling his newly regained strength.

"Your hands would remember their strength better if they grasped your sword," Gandalf said, and immediately Háma disappeared from the room to fetch the king's sword. Théoden stood from the throne, feeling as though he had woken from a deep dream. He saw Legolas, then, holding Draca close to him to protect her.

"The green Lady," he said softly. "She tried to help me several times…I remember…" he said, approaching where the elf knelt with her.

"Uncle…push aside the scarf on her mouth," Éowyn said suddenly. Théoden's brows furrowed.

"She was burned, was she not? Her face scarred?" he inquired. Éowyn scowled.

"Scarred, yes, but not by any flame. Push aside the covering, sir," Éowyn said to Legolas. The elf's slender fingers reached up and hooked on the soft scarf Draca had tied across her mouth. He pulled down the material, and the King gave a surprised cry. Legolas wailed at the sight of her face. The stitches were black and even, keeping her lips closed tightly.

"_Tithen gwathel!"_ Legolas cried, tears flooding his face. Gandalf knelt next to her suddenly, reaching out to touch her face. Her cheeks were hollow and her face thin, with deep dark circles under her eyes. She was much too thin.

"Lady Ithilrhas…I have failed you," Gandalf said, his own bright eyes dulled with tears.

Háma returned with the King's sword, and it was presented to him. Gimli had grown lax in his guard of Gríma in the revelation of the Lady Wizard's face, and at that time the sallow man tried to sneak out of the hall. Théoden turned to him suddenly, pointing the sword at him.

"You foul thing! With a clear mind I see now what I should have before! You _abused_ her! She was naught but a plaything to you! While you toyed with my mind you used her as one might a common whore, yet you gave her none of the respect of one," Théoden snarled. Legolas' head snapped up, his eyes glowing angrily.

"My Lord…please listen…" Gríma simpered. Théoden reached forward, grasping Gríma by his heavily scented furs and dragging him to the front door of the Meduseld. It was opened for the king, and he tossed the man who had been his advisor out of the door bodily. Gríma fell heavily down the stairs. "I have only ever served you, my Lord," Gríma cringed. Théoden laughed harshly. A small crowd was growing, curious to see their King looking so fiery.

"Your witchcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast! You simpering leech!" Théoden cried.

"Send me not from your sight!" Gríma begged. Théoden raised his sword to Gríma. It was Aragorn who stepped forward, holding back the King's arm.

"My Lord, please. Do not do this thing. Enough blood has been spilt on account of this man," Aragorn said. Aragorn held down a hand to Gríma, a stern look on his face. Gríma stared at the hand for a moment, before spitting on his palm and rushing to his feet. He fled the presence of the host. Théoden scowled and turned to one of the guards.

"After him!" said Théoden. "See that he does no harm to any, but do not hurt him or hinder him. Give him a horse, if he wishes it."

"If one will carry him," Gandalf said darkly. Then he turned back into the hall as the people began to cheer for Théoden. Legolas had not moved from his place holding Draca. He had her head cradled in his lap, and his shoulders were heaving with sobs.

"Legolas Thranduilion, do not weep. She will recover. And I will right a wrong that has been cast upon her for some time," Gandalf said gently, kneeling next to the elf. Legolas allowed Gandalf to take the limp form from him, laying her out gently on the floor. He lowered the tip of his staff against her lips, murmuring softly. Then he reached forward, and with a gentle hand he began plucking out the hideous black string. When at last her mouth was free to open, he ran his hand over her face.

"Open your eyes, little Green Wizard," Gandalf said gently. She whimpered softly, her body cringing several times before her eyes fluttered open. The first thing she saw was Legolas leaning over her, his face awash with concern. Her eyes widened.

"Hello, little sister," Legolas said, trying to put some cheer into his voice. She smiled at him, before her smile faded quickly. She lifted a hand and pressed it to her mouth, and her eyes found Gandalf's. Tears flooded her face and she began to cry. A sob tore itself from her mouth, but when her body jerked she let out a yelp. "What is wrong, Draca?" Legolas asked.

"Mmmyy….b-baaack," she said haltingly, her mouth unused to forming words.

"We will have you checked by a healer, then," Gandalf said. Legolas gathered her into his arms, kissing her forehead to stave off the feeble protests she made. He held her easily in his arms, his elven strength serving him well as they walked.

They could have no idea exactly how big an explosion was about to take place.

* * *

Boromir held her close to him as his chest heaved. She ran her clawed fingers lightly over the hair on his chest; brushing across the flat male nipples and making him shudder with desire. She reached up and ran her hand over his bearded cheek, leaning forward and brushing their lips together. He suddenly rolled to cover her with his body, pushing her knees apart and entering her swiftly. She let out a satisfied sigh.

"Talun…Talun you are so beautiful," he moaned, grasping her legs. Their coupling was swift but passionate, each reaching a powerful completion that left them both breathless.

"Boromir," she breathed. He made a soft noise of assent. "Do you care for me, Boromir? Or am I just something to pass the time?" she asked. A bit of casual sex had never bothered her before, but for some reason she did not want it to be so with him. His arms held her tighter and he buried his face into her lightly scented curls. She used scented oils to keep her curls soft and manageable, and the wild scent of them drove Boromir crazy.

"I do not want to let you go," he said softly. "But you are young."

"I am an adult. And you should know that those with Uruk blood tend to mature a little faster than others. I am hardly wet behind the ears," she argued, playing with his dark hair. His broad hand splayed across the soft brown skin of her breast and he was rewarded with a deep-throated purr.

"I should hope not. What is it you want us to be?" he asked. She looked up at him, her yellow eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

"I know not. Never before have I wanted someone as I want you. I feel as if my very soul is soothed when you are near. I do not wish for your people to hate you, though," she said. His head tilted slightly. "They are besieged by orcs of Mordor…surely they would disapprove of you fucking an orc," she said in a self-deprecating way. He pressed a kiss gently to her lips, then to her nose, and then to her forehead.

"I do not see you as half-orc. Or half-human. I just see you. You are Talun, sweet Talun with the wild curls and wicked blade. You are Talun who healed me, intrigued me, and caught me quite neatly in a web of passion. You purr when I touch your breasts and keen quite wildly when I bury my tongue into your secret depths," he said, pressing their foreheads together. She smiled sadly.

"And that is very nice to hear…and though I may be those things…I am also only half-human. I am also half-orc. There would be many people who disapproved," she whispered.

"There would be many who disapproved if you were blonde, or had freckles, or were thick in the waist, or narrow in the hips. There is only one person who needs to approve of our union, and he is a good man who has already seen the merits of the half-orcs. You do not need to make him see anything but you," he said passionately.

"So then, my passionate man of Gondor…what do you say we are? What am I to you?" she asked, bringing their conversation full circle. He smiled at her.

"I would ask your permission to court you, then, for I do not wish to ever be separated from you," he said quietly. She blinked, and then wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his neck.

"Oh, Boromir! My heart has never been so full of joy! Make love to me again, so that I may remember the feel of you in days to come, when we may not be allowed to enjoy each other's presence," she begged, grasping a handful of taut male buttock.

He obliged her quite willingly, and it finally took a few of the more tactful Redlings throwing pebbles over the boulder at them to get them to come back to camp.

* * *

The gates of Edoras came into their sights in the afternoon, and from their approach they could see a figure leave the gates, fleeing to the North towards Isengard. It would take them another hour to come close enough to the gates for the guards to send out a warning call.

"Halt, riders of wolves and bandits with covered faces!" A guard called. It was Boromir who rode forward on his horse, the horn of Gondor hung at his waist.

"Guardian of the gates of Edoras, it is I, Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, come with allies to seek a parley with Théoden King!" he said, his head held high.

"Rohan needs not allies who would come with wolves!" the guard argued.

"These people are entirely trustworthy and their mounts as friendly as any canine, and as loyal and fierce as any mount of the Rohirrim," Boromir countered. The guard looked offended. How could he possibly compare a wolf to a horse of Rohan? "All I ask is that you send word to Théoden King. I will enter the city alone for a time if it would calm your heart."

The guard thought on this for a moment. "Very well, Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor. You may enter to seek audience with the King, and we will keep watch on your wolf-riders," the guard said gruffly. Many guards exited the gates as they were opened for Boromir.

"If our friends are there, tell them Naurlam would greatly appreciate a bed and a body to warm it!" James called from in the midst of the wolves. There was a sharp thud of flesh meeting flesh. "Ow, goddammit, Phelan! You didn't have to punch me!"

Boromir shook his head as he entered the gates, turning back only for a moment to meet the shadowed gaze of one of the wolf riders. A gloved hand lifted and was pressed to the chest. Boromir nodded his recognition of the gesture and then nudged his horse forward into the city.

Everything was moving forward swiftly.

* * *

OoOoOoOo So close to Draca and James' reunion. What did you think? I rather like my new couple. I wanted to be different…I should say I succeeded. Lol. Can you imagine the look on Denethor's crazy face when he finds out who his son's girlfriend is? Trololol.

Well, leave a review if you're excited for an explosion of emotions and action when James gets a good look at Draca and Boromir and James are reunited with Gandalf and the Three Hunters.

Favorite, follow, but please, please review!


	24. Reunions

Oh gosh, guys! I had such an outpouring of responses! I had several people that just now joined this story reviewing, and I had a lot of you guys getting super stoked to see the reunion of James and Draca. I hope I don't disappoint you in this chapter. Whoot, we're gearing up for Helm's Deep! Yay!

Also, while researching for this chapter, and using both book and movie, I came across an interesting question: How in _God's name_ did Elrond know to send elven warriors to Helm's Deep in the movie? The people of Rohan went to Helm's Deep to _avoid_ war…they had no idea that Saruman was sending the Uruk-hai army after them until Aragorn came back from his water-aerobics class. D: (Also in the book Mirkwood and Lothlórien were both besieged at the same time. They could not have spared warriors even if they wanted to.)

Anyway…I hope I've done this justice, and I hope you guys continue to review with such tenderness and love!

* * *

Chapter 24 – Reunions

James was now bored. Boromir had been gone for five minutes and already he was blindingly bored. He was tossing pebbles at one of the Riding Warfs, snickering to himself as the large ears fluttered each time the tiny rocks landed on its head. The wolf then lifted its head, pinning him with a brown-eyed stare that was meant to intimidate. James merely stared back with golden eyes until the wolf turned away, growling lowly in its chest.

"Leave the wolves alone," Phelan said absent-mindedly. Then he growled when a pebble struck his ear. "Damn it, James..."

James stood to his feet and stretched, swishing his tail and unfurling his wings. He yelped when one of the wolf pups started gnawing on the tip of his tail. He heard Phelan chuckle darkly as he reached down and pried the jaws from his tail. He grabbed the pup and held it up to his face, glaring at it in annoyance, but it was too young to know the rules of dominance and merely gave him a sloppy kiss on the lips with a moist tongue.

"Cor Blimey! I saw where that tongue was earlier!" he cried, putting the pup down and scrubbing at his face. He could hear snickering as he walked away from their circle of people. The Rohirric guards were watching him warily, spears held ready in the event he started causing trouble. Several of them were holding their bows, ready to fire. James paced back and forth in front of several of them.

"So what's new in Rohan?" he asked conversationally. One of the guards regarded him suspiciously.

"We will not tell you anything," he said firmly. James rolled his eyes.

"Come on, guys! I'm dying of boredom, here! Throw me something. Give me some kind of juicy gossip," he begged.

"Gríma was cast out of the city by the king," one of the younger guards said timidly. One of his fellows nudged him with his elbow.

"See? Now we're getting somewhere. Who's Gríma? Was he involved in some sordid love triangle with a Lord's daughter?" James asked, his eyes lighting up with mischief. The guard shuddered.

"Nay...but he did have an unhealthy obsession with Lady Éowyn, the King's niece," he said. The guard who had nudged him snorted.

"Aye, but it was the Green Lady who held his interest most firmly," he sneered.

"'Tis true, Hengest, but I somewhat felt sorry for her. And you know, she befriended the Lady Éowyn," Now the young guard was rather ignoring James as he spoke with his friend.

"I never liked her. She always had an air about her. And you know what I heard Gríma call her once?" the guard asked.

James snorted and turned away from them, having been left out of the exact entertainment he had sought.

"I heard him call her Lady Wizard! I bet she is a Witch of Morgoth, just waiting to-,"

James had whirled, grabbing the guard by the front of his cloak and lifting him up.

"Lady wizard? What does she look like?" he asked, his eyes wild. Phelan stood quickly as few other guards started towards them.

"Tall, blonde, rather willowy looking with Elvish ears!" The guard gasped out. James dropped him. He turned towards Edoras.

"Is she still here?" he asked quietly.

"She did not leave Gríma, so I suppose she's- hey!" James had taken off running, dodging between hands that tried to grab him. As he approached the gate, he could hear the shouts of others telling him to stand down. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, so focused was he on his goal. He spread his wings suddenly, flapping downward and lifting himself off of the ground. Several powerful flaps took him higher and higher, and he banked to the side to avoid a spear that was thrown at him.

"James, no!" Phelan called.

James incinerated several arrows that approached him with a puff of his breath and a sharp gesture of his hand knocked aside several more as he flew upwards, rising high enough to crest the gate. His wings folded and he shot towards the ground like a rocket, with only a powerful buffer of magic preventing him from splattering himself across the ground. As it were his feet started pounding against the ground as soon as he landed, easily outmaneuvering the guards that had been there. He ignored the terrible pain in his mostly healed knee.

"Damn it, James!" Phelan called, reaching quickly and grabbing the broom that James had enchanted for their trip here. He started running, throwing a leg over the broom and rising quickly. The broom ride was not the smoothest, but James had done a quick job enchanting it and it flew just fine. He zipped over the gate, trying to catch up with James, whose wings were now tucked back firmly as he ran. People moved out of their houses as the strange, winged man ran through the street, pointing and shouting as the figure on broomstick chased along behind him.

James approached the Meduseld, holding up both hands in front of him. He jerked both hands own with a cry, and the doors to the palace flew open as though made of paper and not of heavy wood and iron.

Phelan cursed as he landed, running through the door after James.

* * *

Legolas sat next to Draca's bed, desperate for her to awaken again. She had been brought to the Healer's quarters to be checked out, and they had yet to send someone to help her. That was nearly an hour ago.

A woman suddenly burst into the room, her head covered in a scarf and a healer's bag clutched in her hand.

"Damn stubborn people, damned cruel worm...damned reckless wizard!" she hissed, quickly approaching the other side of Draca's bed.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Mistress Healer?" Legolas asked. She looked up at the speaker, and her eyes went wide. Legolas felt the saliva in his mouth dry up, his own brows climbing very high.

"Legolas?" she asked.

"Lady Celebrían..." he breathed. He had seen her several times when he had visited Rivendell over the years. He had traveled with the sons of Elrond as they placed their mother on the ship that bore her away to Valinor. "How...are you...I don't..." he stuttered. She grimaced, not having expected to see someone familiar so soon.

"I sailed back. I felt there was something I needed to do. We will have to talk later," she said, reaching into her bag and withdrawing a knife. "Help me get this dress off of her. She has taxed herself too much."

Celebrían slipped the knife under the back of the dress, making a swift cut downward. She heard the strangled exclamation of the young Prince as Draca's back was revealed. She cut down to the hem of the dress, carefully leaving the pieces draped across her bottom. Legolas helped her maneuver the body out of the dress and into a soft cotton robe that had an open back with a few ties to keep modesty. Celebrían left the ties undone and began to dab a sweet-smelling slave onto the abused skin.

"What happened to her?" Legolas asked quietly as he stroked the hair back from her face.

"The King's advisor was given her as a gift from Saruman. He abused her terribly. I interfered how I could. At the least I provided the poor dear a bit of comfort," Celebrían murmured softly

"You always have been good at giving comfort to the hurting." Legolas said. Celebrían looked up for a moment, sparing a gentle look for the young elf that had been very good friends with her twin sons. Legolas cleared his throat nervously. "Lady...there are so many things to say…" he whispered.

There was a shout in the hallway suddenly, and the door was nearly kicked off of its hinges by the force that opened it. Celebrían jumped and looked around, her eyes lighting on a most frightening specter. He was tall with lean muscles, great black wings on his back and a slender black tail whipping out behind him angrily. His slitted eyes glowed golden, making his pale face seem more frightening. His mouth was open in a snarl, revealing sharp fangs that glinted in the light.

"Naurlam!" Legolas exclaimed. James saw Draca lying on the bed, the back of the gown open to reveal her ruined back and bottom. Angry red stripes crisscrossed the pale skin down to the hollow of her knees, and there were several places that had been cut into deeply, making the skin raw and bloody. She was so very thin, and he could see the outline of her ribcage from behind, and her thin arm hung limply from the side of the bed.

James stalked forward a few steps before Phelan and two guards skidded into the room. James had eyes for no one but Draca, closing the gap between them. Celebrían whimpered as he drew close, but he merely leaned down close to Draca's face, watching her closely to make sure she was still breathing. A trembling hand reached forward and touched her cheek, brushing back to card into her hair. His head lowered until he buried his face into her hair and inhaled deeply.

Legolas' sensitive ears picked up a small sniffle as James grasped Draca's cool hand, drawing it close to his chest as he laid his head against the bed so that their foreheads touched. Phelan was watching from the doorway, his face twisted with grief for Draca's condition.

"I'm…so…_sorry_," James heaved. He took a shuddering breath, and released it with a hitch. As relieved and guilty as he had felt when he had finally been reunited with Phelan, this was worse. Phelan had been happy and healthy during his sojourn in this world. He had been surrounded by strange but honest folk, fighting to help right a wrong. Draca…poor, sweet Draca. He should have been able to find her…help her…_something. _He drew his wing up slightly, draping it over Draca as he wept against her.

"You must be James."

He raised his head slightly to look at the blonde woman. She had the fruity scent of elves about her, even though her head was covered with a scarf. She was very lovely, in that ethereal way elves have. Her hair was very light, silvery blonde and straight, and her eyes were clear and blue. She looked vaguely familiar. He started to turn away from her and back to Draca, before he sat bolt upright and stared at her, his tear-stained face in shock.

"You're Celebrían!" he gasped. She blinked.

"How…did you know?" she asked. He regained a bit of his composure, scrubbing at his eyes as he reached over and adjusted Draca's gown to cover her bottom.

"You're Elrond's wife. I…painted a portrait of you for him when I lived in Imladris a few years ago," he said absent-mindedly.

"What in Béma's name is going on here?"

Every head turned to see Théoden standing in the doorway, looking pale and angry. He took one look at James and drew his sword. James made no move to withdraw the blade that Celeborn had given him, instead laying his arm across the backs of Draca's shoulders in a protective movement. "I am trying to decide the best way to help my people while making funeral arrangements for my son! Is there any reason I have heard of _two_ strangers leaping the gates of Edoras?"

"My Lord, please," Legolas said, moving forward. "This is James Firetongue. He traveled with our group for some time. We were separated by injuries at Amon Hen. He was friends with the Green Wizard long before she came to Edoras, and having heard she was here he came to see her," Legolas said diplomatically. Just because James hadn't blown fire out of his mouth yet didn't mean he wouldn't torch the King of Rohan, and Legolas knew this well.

"We haven't seen her in seventy years, Lord King," Phelan added. Théoden turned to Phelan, looking him over.

"You're an odd-looking one as well. You must be part of those Reddies that Denethor's son is trying to get me to parley with," he said. Phelan nodded graciously.

"I am with the party of Redlings, sir. We wish only the chance to ally ourselves with Rohan. We have much to offer in the way of extra spears and people to wield them," Phelan said. Théoden looked around the room, his eyes lighting on the Elf, the yellow-eyed Phelan, James' winged back as he protected the Green Lady, and then to one of his guards that was standing nearby.

"What an Age. Come with me, my oddly-colored visitor, and we will reunite with the others. I believe we may be able to come to some sort of agreement, so long as I don't have another dragon storming my gates," he said dryly. James' head lifted slightly and he turned to the King of Rohan.

"I make no promises."

* * *

Pain. Sharp pain. That's what she felt as consciousness came back to her. It wasn't as bad as it had been before, certainly, but it was still quite uncomfortable. She whimpered lightly as she tried to drag her heavy eyelids up. She succeeded, but was confused when all she saw was black. She moved her head slightly, releasing a breath, and the black swayed gently. It took her a moment to realize that it was hair. Her half-conscious mind panicked then, thinking it was Gríma, and she struggled back away from the figure that had laid its head on her bed.

A deep rumble came from the figure, and she noticed her hand was covered by a large, warm hand, with sharp black nails. Gríma didn't have sharp nails… The rumble sounded again, and something moved against her shoulders. A lump formed in her throat as she realized that it was a large black wing. There was only one person she knew with black hair, sharp nails, wings, and a tendency to rumble deeply.

"J-James," she whimpered, her mouth still unfamiliar with speaking. The figure shifted, lifting his head as she got the first look at James she'd had in seventy years. He looked much the same, his golden eyes framed with short black lashes. The only major difference she saw in his face was a long scar that traveled from deep in his hairline down between his eyes, and crossed over onto his left cheek.

"Draca," he said simply, and she crumbled under the sound of his voice. Every year of separation fell on her at once. Every time Saruman had switched or caned her for impertinence. Every time he'd sent her on long, drawn-out journeys just to learn that women had no place in this world. Every time Gríma had struck her, or pulled her ears, or raped her…they all piled on her thin, striped shoulders and she broke apart, sobbing incoherently in the presence of someone she had lost hope of ever seeing again.

He sat up, drawing her into his arms and letting her cry. His own tears had been quiet but heart-felt, and now he felt as though he needed to be her shelter in this storm. In truth, he didn't mind. In his strong arms he allowed her to break apart, and he drew his wings around them to give a modicum of privacy to her as she grieved and wept. He didn't try to whisper false platitudes. He didn't try to shush her as she broke in his arms. He simply held her tightly and stroked her hair, nuzzling his cheek against the top of her head. After several minutes her heaving, body wracking sobs died down to soft sniffles and a few hiccups.

"I f-feel sssilly," she stuttered. She heard his laugh deep in his chest, and wished she could melt into him.

"Do not. If you do then I'll have to feel silly for weeping like a baby when I met up with Phelan," he said. She pulled back, looking into his face.

"You found Phelan? Is he well? Did Orion find you?" she asked.

"Peace, my love!" he laughed. She did pause, her face in pleased awe at his term of endearment. "He is in fine shape. In fact, he is here in Edoras as we speak, parleying with the King. I have not found Orion, though," he said, before placing a kiss on her forehead. She was quiet, reveling in his presence for several moments before she spoke again.

"Where is Celebrían?" she asked.

"She went to speak with Legolas. She left you some clothes to put on if you were feeling well enough to stand," James said, pointing to a small pile of clothing on a nearby table. Draca also felt a great sense of relief to see her cherry-wood staff leaned against the table as well. "If you are up to it, we can go see Phelan," James added. Draca looked relieved and excited.

"I would love to see him again," she said. There were a few awkward moments. "Uh...would you...mind...stepping out?" James looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, before he jumped and laughed.

"Yes, yes, of course!" he said, standing from his place near her bed. He leaned down and kissed her face once more, before heading towards the door. "I'll be outside when you're ready."

He stood in the hallway, feeling strangely light after all these years. Draca had been damaged, but thankfully she was not broken. He would have killed every straw-headed moron in Edoras if she'd been any more damaged. As it were, he had a few questions that needed asking very soon.

She limped out of the room a few minutes later, holding her staff as she tried to keep her dress from brushing her ruined back.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, resting his hand on her cheek. She leaned into the tender touch for a moment, before she finally nodded.

"Yes. I want to see everyone," she said. James tilted his head at her. Directly under the light of a torch, he could see strange marks around her lips. He reached up, brushing the pads of his fingers across the marks. She shuddered under the touch.

"What are these?" he asked quietly. She would not look at him for a quiet while, before his fingers gingerly tilted up her chin.

"My mouth was sewn shut," she said bluntly, risking a look at him. He was staring quietly, his eyes unblinking. She saw the slitted pupil narrow slowly as anger crept into his gaze. She shivered as the feeling of charging magic entered the air. His arms were encasing her suddenly, pulling her to his chest. She could hear his heart thumping wildly and could feel the hum of magic in the air around him.

"I'm so sorry. It was my experiment that caused this. I never wanted this to happen," he said softly.

"It's not your fault. You couldn't have known..." she whimpered. He pulled back from her, placing his hands on her face and staring into her eyes.

"I will not let anything else happen to you. If I have to set this entire place on fire I will do it. Not even the Dark Lord himself could harm you now," he said fervently.

"I missed you, Scales," she said softly. He gave a shocked laugh at the sudden use of a nickname he hadn't heard since second year.

"I missed you too, Chipmunk," he replied. She laughed brightly, remembering the Potions incident that had given her chipmunk cheeks for two weeks. She hadn't quite lived down the nickname with her friends.

And _god_, did it feel _great_ to be amongst friends again!

* * *

Théoden walked with the motley group to the gates of Edoras. Aragorn was still in the Meduseld, speaking briefly with the Elf and the Dwarf. The dragon man was with the Green Lady, guarding her like she was a pile of coins. Several of his personal guards walked with them, looking extremely nervous. He would not lie to anyone...he was nervous too. When the phrase 'half-orc' came up, he had started to staunchly refuse. But Aragorn and Boromir had both spoken kindly of these...creatures. With him and his guards were the silver-haired Phelan and Boromir, Denethor's son.

Men and women of orc-blood, who were children of Rohan and Gondor. It was a difficult situation to comprehend.

The gates of Edoras were opened, and he could see the camp of people just off to the side. He inhaled sharply at the first sight he had of one of their wolf-mounts. It was as big as any horse, with broad paws that would gut a man with ease. It did not, however, have the hideous face of a Warg. It was just a Wolf…very large, yes, but a wolf nonetheless… Other guards were interspersed through the group of people, watching to make sure no others stormed the gate.

"Phelan!" A hooded figure stood, taking a few steps towards their group. Phelan stepped forward.

"As you can see, Gismblog, we are all quite well and whole," he said.

"I'd like to see your face, stranger, if I am to trust you and yours in my land," Théoden said gruffly. The Redling Warriors had been hooded so as to not make the Rohan soldiers nervous. They had seemed spooked enough at the sight of the children, with their green or grey or brown skin and sharply colored eyes. Gismblog pulled back his hood, and Théoden bit back a curse. He had to physically restrain himself from grabbing his sword and running the man through. Those crimson eyes were unnerving.

"I am Gismblog, Lord King, founder of Redling Village," Gismblog said, bowing low to the King of Rohan. There was a yip and a yelp, and one of the toy wolf pups suddenly escaped the arms of the one holding it, evading several hands and making a dive for Théoden's boots. One of the guards nocked a bow, but Théoden lifted his hand to still him. The little wolfling yipped happily, barking and climbing on the king's boots. He carefully tugged off his thick leather gloves and tucked them into his belt, before reaching down and plucking up the little wolf. Its eyes were warm and brown, with a narrow snout and small, upright ears that were tufted at the tip. It yipped at him several times, before he obliged the little thing with a pat on the head. He held it in one hand and petted it as he looked back over the group outside the gate of his city.

"I will only ask one question: Why should I let you live in my country?" he asked. There was silence among the Redlings. Gismblog opened his mouth to speak, but there was an answer among the younger warriors before he could.

"You shouldn't," said a firm, quiet voice. Gismblog's head snapped towards where one of the warriors stood. The hood was pulled back, and he kept his face schooled as Drengcwen was revealed. Théoden turned to the grey-faced young woman, an intrigued look on his face.

"Explain," he said.

"We do not want to just live somewhere, my Lord," she said, stepping forward. "We want to earn our place in this country, not be given a place out of pity or fear. We want to fight with our mother's people as one blood. We don't want a place to live. We want a home," she said. She whistled sharply, and her wolf mount stood at her side, tilting its head at the people that stood in front of them. "Many of us are warriors. We can fight. There are many of us who are farmers. We are strong and tireless. We are loyal."

"Fine words, young woman. Were this any other time in Rohan's history, I would be tempted to sit and talk further. As it is, though, I have not the time or the resources to further this parley," Théoden said. He turned to Boromir, who was about to protest. "I am taking the people to Helm's deep for protection, and cannot protect any more. I will not let them fall in the might of Saruman while I am playing games," he said sharply. He held out the wolf-pup to Phelan. Phelan held up his hand.

"Keep him, my Lord, as a gift of good will. He's excitable but loyal, and they make great companions," he said softly.

"Let us accompany you, then!" said another voice. Boromir's head snapped towards the sound of Talun's voice as she threw her hood back. A few of the men murmured at the sight of one of the grown Uruk folk. "Your people are many and your forces are devastated by their fight against the White Wizard's folk. Let us help you get your people to their Keep!" she said desperately.

"My Lord..." a quiet voice started. One of the young mothers moved forward, holding her son close to her as she walked. Her hair was the golden color of the Rohirrim, and the young lad in her hands was green-skinned, with pale green eyes. His face was chubby and had the cheerfulness of youth as he gnawed on a wooden figurine with sharp teeth. She stepped very close to the King, and he could see the tears in her eyes.

"I was born of Rohan. My only sin was that my home was attacked by orcs. I was made sport among them, Théoden King. I was tortured and left to die. But I did not. And when I found myself expecting a child from the ordeal, I thought it would be easier to throw myself down upon a blade and end my own life. But I did not. And do you want to know why, My Lord?" she asked. Théoden regarded her silently. "I did not because that would have been cowardly. And the Eorlingas are not cowards! So I carried my son to term and gave him life. And because no village would take me because of my 'transgression,' I gave birth sitting against a tree, with nothing but a tatty cloak to catch my son. When I found the Redlings, I felt as though a great miracle had happened, but I always had hope that one day I could come home. Why? Because I am an Eorling! I am Rohirrim, my king. And no matter who his father was...so is my son. My son is an Eorling, too," she finished, staring down the King with a fierce expression on her face.

He could see the others stirring at her words.

"Pull back your hoods," Théoden said, his voice quiet but firm. The others slowly revealed their faces. He found himself looking at the high cheekbones of the Rohirrim. He found himself looking at the broad shoulders of the Gondorrim. He found himself looking at the Blonde hair of Rohan, and the Dark hair of Gondor. Blue eyes and brown eyes along with the red, orange and yellow. They could no more help their birth than he could. Théoden looked at Phelan, his blue eyes blazing.

"Have your people ready to go within the hour. We cannot linger here," he said sharply. There was a cheer amongst the Redlings, and the wolf in his hand yipped excitedly. He looked down at the little creature, whose little red tongue was lolling happily as it rested in his arm. "Come then, _lytel freond,_ and let us see if we cannot keep Rohan from the flames of Isengard," he said.

Phelan watched as the king turned away with his entourage, his heart filled with hope for the first time in many years. Perhaps it would be possible for the Redlings to live in harmony with the Rohirrim.

* * *

Aww…Jamesie and Draca were happy to see each other. I'll get more of Celebrían and the others next chapter…I wanted to focus mainly on the Redlings and the reunions of the wizard children. Huzzah!

(To my reviewer, Thunder Stag: I understand what you're saying. In my personal life I agree with this and believe it, and have made that decision to wait. But I also know that there are people who do not wait. So while I have not put as many references to that in this story as I have in previous ones, or even in stories that I have read, I felt it was realistic without being smutty. I'm glad you like it other than that part, though. XD)


	25. A Crown and a Canopy

Well guys it feels like it's been longer than it really has been. Lol. This chapter took more effort than I wanted it too, but it also answered a few questions and pushed the plot along. I am excited, and I hope you guys are too. I left an interesting proposal in the Author's Note below, so don't forget to check it out and let me know what you think!

I'm always glad for new reviewers and I'm always appreciative of the ones that keep returning! Let me know if this chapter is up to par!

* * *

Chapter 25 – A Crown and a Canopy

"Merry..."

"What, Pippin?"

"We're riding a tree, Merry..."

"I know, Pippin."

"Merry...?"

"Yes, Pippin?"

"Do you think Nalt and Hugi will be all right?"

While Merry and Pippin had clung to the branches of Treebeard's foliage, he had marched them through the forest. Nalt and Hugi had been given leave by Gandalf to go back to Isengard and try to persuade some of the Uruk-hai to empty the pits beneath the tower before the army was supposed to march on Rohan. Both of them were unsure of how much success they would be met with, but had promised to try nonetheless.

Pippin couldn't understand half of what the male Uruk said, but he was rather funny and he enjoyed them both. Merry had been very reluctant to let the lady-Uruk leave, but she had told him that she would repay his kindness by trying to help their resistance. That had been a day ago.

"We Ents have not troubled about the wars of Men and wizards for a very long time," Treebeard said suddenly, in that slow, deep way of his. "But now, something is about to happen that has not happened for an age. Entmoot."

"What is that?" Merry asked. Tree beard was silent for a moment as they approached a large clearing in the wood.

"'Tis a gathering," Treebeard said simply.

"A gathering of what?" Merry asked curiously. His thought was interrupted by the sound of creaking wood, similar to the sounds that Treebeard made. He turned in the branches to see other ents moving through the woods into the clearing. Large, broad trees and slender, tall trees moved with the same deliberate slowness of Treebeard.

"Beech. Oak. Chestnut. Ash. Good. Good. Good. Many have come. Now we must decide if the Ents will go to war," Treebeard said. Merry gave a wicked grin that looked quite out of place on his normally fair and jovial face.

Then the trees spent the next few hours speaking with each other. Pippin had actually fallen asleep at one point, his head leaning precariously on his arm as he listened to the moans and hums of the trees. Merry had begun recounting all of the Hobbit lasses he had ever dated, trying to remember their birthdays and family histories. He had gotten so far as Abigail Tunnelly when Pippin's head slipped off of his arm and he awoke with a start.

"Good Lord..." he murmured.

"It's been going on for hours," Merry said.

"They must have decided something by now," Pippin replied. Treebeard turned to them, leveling them with a bemused look.

"Decided? No. We only just finished saying good morning."

Merry's mouth dropped open.

"But it's been hours already! This is taking forever!" he cried.

"Don't be hasty," Treebeard admonished gently.

"We are running out of time!" Pippin said desperately. Treebeard merely hummed and turned back to his meeting. There was another while of humming and groaning. Then the large ent turned back to the hobbits.

"We have agreed," he said gently, nodding his head as if he'd known all along.

"Yes?" Merry said, trying to prompt a reply.

"I have told your names to the Entmoot, and we have agreed, you are not Orcs," he said. Merry looked rather flustered.

"That's...that's good, right?" Pippin asked. Merry's brows drew together.

"And what about Saruman? Have you come to a decision about him?" he asked.

"Now is not the time to be hasty, Master Meriadoc."

"Hasty? Our friends are out there. They need our help. They cannot fight this war on their own, and Nalt and Hugi could be dying right now as they try to muster a renegade alliance with the Uruks of Isengard," Merry said, pointing South.

"War? Yes. It affects us all. Tree, root and twig. But you must understand, young Hobbit, it takes a long time to say anything in Old Entish and we never say anything unless it is worth taking a long time to say," Treebeard replied.

It was some time before the ent turned back to the hobbits.

"The Ents cannot hold back this storm. We must weather such things as we have always done."

"How can that be your decision?" Merry cried desperately.

"This is not our war," Treebeard explained.

"But you're part of this world! Aren't you?! You must help. Please. You must do something. Our friends will die..." Merry said sadly, tears coming to his eyes.

"You are young and brave, Master Merry. But your part in this tale is over. Go back to your home," Treebeard said gently, extending a branchy finger and brushing a leaf across Merry's cheek to brush his tear away. Pippin reached out and took Merry's hand, sighing softly.

"Maybe Treebeard's right. We don't belong here, Merry. It's too big for us. What can we do in the end? We've got the Shire. Maybe we should go home..." he whispered to his cousin. Merry's face hardened and he pulled his hand away.

"The fires of Isengard will spread and the woods of Tuckborough and Buckland will burn. And…and all that was once green and good in this world will be gone. There won't be a Shire, Pippin," he said, hunching his shoulders and turning away.

"Come. I will leave you at the western borders of the forest. You can make your way north to your homeland from there," Treebeard said, lowering his hands to receive the hobbits. Pippin looked at Merry's stiff back, his eyes darting back and forth as he thought. Then he nodded.

"No. Take us south," he said. Merry turned to him, looking incredulous.

"South? But that would take you past Isengard," Treebeard said with surprise.

"Yes! Exactly! If we go south, we can slip past Saruman unnoticed. The closer we are to danger, the farther we are from harm. It's the last thing he'll expect," Pippin said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and everyone would be retarded to follow any other plan.

"That doesn't make sense to me. But then, you are very small. Perhaps you're right," he said, letting out a whoosh of breath that swayed Merry and Pippin's hair like a gentle breeze. "South it is, then. Hold on, little Shirelings. I always like going south. Somehow it feels like going downhill."

"Are you mad?" Merry whispered fervently as Treebeard gently plucked them up. "We'll be caught!"

Pippin's mouth curled up wickedly, his eyes alight with an unholy fire that Merry had only seen a few times, each time bringing horrifying trouble.

"No. No we won't. Not this time."

* * *

With many old, very young, and a few infirm traveling with them, the group had to stop a few times on the way to Helm's Deep. Théoden sat with the remainder of the Fellowship and with his niece, who was accompanied by the Green Lady and the other elf, who he had discovered was named Celebrían. She was a lovely vision when she was not hiding underneath scarves or trying to dim her own inner light. Boromir and the half-Uruk girl that he had been making goo-goo eyes at had disappeared to sit behind a tree for a modicum of privacy.

"So what exactly made you decide to sail back?" Aragorn asked Celebrían as they rested along the ground. Though the company was not tired they took the time to rest anyway.

"Well…I do not possess the gift of foresight like my mother or husband, but I do get…feelings. It's this unavoidable feeling that I get deep in my heart, and I know what I have to do. I just _knew_ I had to sail, though I couldn't say why. So I sought out Lord Ulmo and begged to be brought back across the sea," she said, as the others listened in awe.

"Lord Ulmo? The Vala?" Théoden asked. She smiled.

"Aye, yes. As Lord of the Waters I figured he would be the best candidate to travel with," she replied.

"And why did you not seek out your husband or children?" the King asked. She looked down, worrying at the edges of her sleeves.

"I felt like I should not. That all-encompassing feeling again. I felt like something would be interrupted if I sought them out, and that I should come straight into somewhere that needed me. Lord Ulmo offered to take me to Minas Tirith first, but I was a little…afraid to be so close to the Land of Shadow. So I came to Rohan first, where I was told I would be needed. I have been volunteering in the Hall of Healing," she finished.

"Elrond misses you," James said, looking across the little clearing between them at the Lady of Rivendell.

"I know. I miss him too," she whispered in return. Draca reached over and took Celebrían's hand.

"You'll see him soon," she said, trying to return even a little of the comfort that had been given her these last days.

A young orcling girl ran through their group, chased by a tanned Rohirric child and a brown-skinned Uruk boy. The girl was wearing a little circlet of braided wildflowers, and looked upset as the laughing boys chased her. The orc girl tripped and fell suddenly, skinning her knee upon the ground. The two boys stopped and looked at each other, then the group sitting there, and took off as boys are wont to do when they know they've caused mischief. The little grey-skinned girl rolled over onto her bottom, looking down at her knees. A few droplets of dark blood welled up against the skin, and her lower lip began to tremble spectacularly.

Draca started to get up from her seat, but Théoden King was closer. He stood from his perch and knelt down beside her, peering at her skinned knee with the concern of an adult for a child.

"Now what happened here?" he asked softly as he reached into his pocket to withdraw a clean handkerchief.

"I falled and skinned my knee," came the wobbly reply. She sniffled as the king gently dabbed at the scrape.

"I say, dear child, it would appear that those two ruffians were chasing you. Why is that?" he asked.

"Dey was making fun of my flower crown," she said dejectedly.

"I think it's rather lovely. It's much nicer than the ones I have to wear," he said conversationally. He untucked the plain blue tunic he was wearing, and tore a thin strip from the bottom, wrapping it around his palm before tucking it back. The girl was gaping at him, her bright orange eyes wide with awe.

"You're da king!" she whispered. He gave her a friendly smile and began to wrap the strip of cloth around her knee. "But you not wearing a crown now…" she pointed out. He carefully tied off the ends of the fabric.

"I left my crown back at the Meduseld, my home. I will take it up again when I return home," he replied, reaching under her armpits and lifting her up. "Better?"

"Much better!" she said, laughing shyly. Then she looked curiously at him. With a flash of inspiration she whipped the little crown of flowers off of her head and placed it reverently upon his brow. "A king needs a crown," she said with a wide smile, showing off her white fangs. He laughed.

"I shall be the envy off all of Arda with such a crown!" he laughed.

It was then that a dark-haired woman approached them, her face red with mortification.

"My Lord! I'm so sorry. You scared me half-to-death, Foshnu!" the woman admonished. But the little girl continued to grin.

"Look, mama! Da King wrapped my knee and I gave him a crown!" she crowed proudly. The woman looked at the colorful arrangement of flowers adorning the King's head. She looked horrified.

"You do not have to wear that if you don't wish it, King Théoden," she said in a strangled voice. Théoden stood to his feet, sweeping Foshnu up into his arms and sitting her on his shoulder. She squealed with delight.

"The little lady has decreed that a King should have a crown, and then it was given me! 'Twould be ill-mannered to refuse such a kingly gift!" he laughed, delighted by the child's antics. Though she was grey-skinned with orange eyes, she reminded him of better days, when children used to run rampant through the Meduseld. What he wouldn't give to have those days again…

"I shall take her now, my Lord, so that you may enjoy what is left of your rest," the woman said, holding out her hands. Though he looked slightly disappointed, he handed the girl to her mother. "Thank you."

"Take care of such a treasure, lady, and no thanks is needed," he replied. She nodded vigorously, and then walked off with the girl, who waved goodbye with childish fervor. Théoden waved as well. Then he returned to his seat for the last few minutes of their break. The eyes of the others were on him, with varying expressions. It was the dragon man that finally spoke.

"Hey, King," he said, his voice trembling with mirth. The King's blue eyes were on him, an annoyed look coming over him as he knew the man was going to try to be funny.

"What?" he asked shortly.

"You look pretty."

Several of them snorted with laughter. Gimli guffawed openly, Aragorn was nearly suffocating as he tried to suppress laughter, and even Legolas laughed lightly and clearly. Éowyn has laughing brightly, which was one of the only reasons Théoden did not get upset. He just grinned and bore their laughs.

"You are all merely jealous."

* * *

Treebeard had kept up a walking commentary while they approached Isengard, speaking of all sorts of creatures that he had encountered over the years, from great birds to tiny bugs and many things in between.

"And those little family of field mice that climb up sometimes and they tickle me awfully. They're always trying to somewhere where they…" as he exited the unexpected tree line, his voice faded off into nothingness. Around Isengard there were no trees. Where there had been lush forests, there were dead stumps, some splintered and reaching up like skeletal remains. Treebeard gasped.

"Many of these trees were my friends. Creatures I had known from nut and acorn. How many of the little things that lived here were killed? They had voices of their own for those who could hear them…" he said thickly. Then he glanced towards Isengard, where smoke still rose in black plumes. "A wizard should know better!" he cried. Then he threw back his head with a creaking groan and let out a yell that pierced Merry and Pippin's ears, causing them to slap their hands against their heads.

"There is no curse in Elvish, Entish or the tongues of Men for this treachery!" Treebeard exclaimed. Merry reached out and patted Treebeard's bark.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said sincerely. They heard movement then, and saw the Ents that had just left them emerging from the trees, walking swiftly towards Isengard.

"Where are they going?" Merry asked nervously.

"Their business is with Orcs. My business is with Isengard tonight; with a rock and stone.

"If Nalt and Hugi were successful there may be a group of Uruk-hai that are not bad, Treebeard! Tell them not to hurt them if they are with them!" Merry said desperately, frightened to think the lady might be harmed simply for being around the others. Treebeard yelled again, his call making them others pause. Several long cries pierced the night, before the others called back in reply.

"They will look for the Orcs who do not act like the others," he reassured the Hobbit. Merry breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes…thank you," Merry sighed.

"Come, my friends. The Ents are going to war. It is likely that we go to our doom. Last march of the Ents," Treebeard said, starting his march towards the dark tower once more.

* * *

They moved, growing ever closer to their sanctuary. The Redling Riders had interspersed with the riders surrounding the women and children, acting as another barrier to protect them should the come across roving orcs. Their preparation was called for more quickly than they anticipated.

Phelan's mount shoved its head up suddenly, barking sharply and glaring up at a cliff face. Phelan looked up, his ears twitching as he tried to listen. He moved forwards suddenly, coming up beside Háma and Gamling.

"Wargs," he growled. Gamling looked over at the Wolfmaster.

"Ain't that what you're riding?" he asked, only a little disdainful.

"No, fool! There are warg-riders about, and they're keeping downwind. I have no idea how close-,"

His sentence was cut off as a warg attacked from the cliff, knocking him from his mount. But the wolf he was riding turned quickly, slashing broad paws and gutting the orc riding the warg, before snapping forward and grabbing the ugly wolf's neck and jerking it from Phelan. He was only scraped as he scrambled to his feet, mounting his wolf as Gamling and Háma turned back to the others.

"That was a scout!" Legolas cried. Then there was a multitude of growls and snarls as they were surrounded by many orc-riders on their mounts. The Redling mounts barked challenges at their hideous cousins.

"Warg! We're under attack!" Aragorn cried.

Many of the women and children began to scream, clinging to each other in terror.

"Get them out of here!" James yelled, drawing his sword and moving in front of Draca.

Théoden turned to Éowyn, his face serious.

"You must lead the people to Helm's Deep. Make haste!" he said. Éowyn looked upset.

"I can fight!" she exclaimed.

"No! You must do this, for me. They need someone to take them ahead, someone who is strong and trustworthy. You must also explain to the ones guarding the Deep that the ones on wolf-back are with us. Go now!" he said, turning his horse away. Éowyn stared after him for a few moments, before she kicked her mount into a trot.

"To me! Follow me!" Théoden called, leading the riders away from the fleeing refugees.

"Make for the lower ground!" Éowyn called to the fleeing civilians. Many of the younger Redling warriors were going with the people of Rohan as they fled, and a few gave up their mounts for women with children who were panicking. Many Redling horses and wolves alike were given for this cause as the ones fleeing with them ran on tireless foot. "Stay together!"

They made for Helm's Deep quickly.

* * *

"Stop it, Hathalmyrn."

The wraith in question sighed softly, plopping down on the ground near one of the groups. The soldiers nearby scooted far away. Harry tried once again to get himself comfortable on his rock perch. Hathalmyrn had been singing some god-awful song in the Black Speech, and it was making some of the women cry.

They were only a few miles march from Helm's Deep, as the sun was making its way ever down. They had been in Rohan for nearly four days now, marching tirelessly towards a vague goal that the Blue Wizards assured them would be receptive.

"Are we there yet?" Sirius asked.

"No, shut up," Lucius snapped.

"Aww…c'mon, Lucius…don't be so….pointy," Sirius said, snickering to himself. Orion shook his head with a sigh.

"Black, we would all appreciate it if you would find the nearest tree and hang yourself from it," Lucius said. Sirius just grinned.

"You're just jealous of my body," he replied. Lucius snorted.

"That must be it. Not. I'd rather try to snog the Grim Reaper over there," Lucius said, pointing towards Hathalmyrn with his head.

"I dunno…I think he was checking out your arse. He might like it if you did the tongue tango with him," Sirius said. Hathalmyrn shuddered.

"I'd rather be considered the lover of Khamûl," he muttered. Sirius cackled.

"Oh gods! The frigging _Nazgûl_ doesn't even want to kiss you!" he snorted. Lucius threw a rock at the dark-haired wizard, eliciting a yelp.

"I'm going to find a cave to bury you in, Black," Lucius growled. Harry watched the two bicker, rolling his eyes.

"It's a good thing our lives aren't on the line or anything," he muttered.

Helm's Deep came in sight as the sun colored the Western Sky with a rainbow of beautiful colors.

* * *

Ah….we are so close. Well, I hope you guys found enjoyment and entertainment in this story. Sorry it took a while to get up.

You know…I've read a lot of fanfiction in my day. And here in the LotR section, there are many, many clichés. Some can be made into fantastic stories. Some are stupid and should be burned with holy fire. One of the greatest clichés is 'Girl falls into Middle Earth.' One of the most clichéd plot twists to that is 'Girl falls into Middle Earth and gets turned into an Elf.' Well I was thinking: that has been done, and done hard. I had a little brain fart. While clichés can be fun to do, I like to try to do something different. So here's what I propose: Girl falls into Middle Earth and gets turned into an Orc.

Would any of you read that? You've seen my style and sampled my humor. Would any of you be interested in seeing a sneak peak of something if I ended up writing anything down with this? It seems really interesting to me, but I don't want to put a lot of effort into it if I don't think it will go anywhere. Let me know!

Favorite, follow, but please, oh please, oh please Review!


	26. Gathering at Helm's Deep

I'm glad you all loved the humor between Lucius and Sirius last chapter. I wanted them to seem like immature brats. :3 Lol to being an adult. It just means you're a kid who pays taxes. And I have gotten a few tentative paragraphs down for the 'Girl falls into Middle Earth and gets turned into an Orc' story. It seems very interesting to me, and if I get anything better down I might leave a little taste at the end of a chapter sometimes.

Well, they've made it to Helm's Deep. The battle does not start this chapter, because there were just a lot of reunions and plot to advance. But next time…there's war. :O

* * *

Chapter 26 – Gathering at Helm's Deep

"Shit. That's a lot of tents."

Sirius had just summed up what everyone else was feeling. As they carefully skirted the huge army of orcs, their nervousness increased. Lucius, Harry, Sirius and Orion were all sweating profusely by the time they brought their numbers to the front of the fort, their energy having been used to cast a large area of Disillusionment charms that, while not making them invisible to the enemy eyes, made them far less noticeable and hard to detect visually.

"The Black Gates house scores more tents than this," Hathalmyrn commented idly. The few that were brave enough to walk near him stared at him with wide eyes. "No one ever said the Fiery Eye was ill prepared for war."

"So what's to prevent them from, Oh I don't know, shoving up their middle fingers and pumping us full of spears and arrows?" Sirius asked. Prince Amir had once again taken his place at the front of their group, having made himself as scarce as possible in the presence of Hathalmyrn.

"Us. The appearance of the Blue Wizards will be your pass," Alatar said confidently. Pollando gave him a friendly grin.

"Aye, but the sight of your face might be more upsetting than comforting," he teased.

"You appear to have something growing out of your neck- oh, it's your face," Alatar replied.

"All right, wizardlings. Alatar and I will do the talking. Prince Amir, I need you up close as a representative. And for Eru's sake, someone hide the Nazgûl!"

They finally made their way up the ramp way of Helm's Deep, their dark armor and blue capes camouflaging them somewhat. Hathalmyrn was standing with his feet on the ground, wrapped in a hooded blue cloak over the top of his black shadowy robe. Pollando lifted a hand as a signal to one of the warriors of Rhûn. Looking nervous, the man put a battle horn to his lips and blew a strong, clear note, announcing their presence.

Then they waited.

* * *

James stood in the armory with Draca, magically altering armor for soldiers as they came through. James had altered and donned a breastplate and transfigured some carefully chosen scraps of metal and leather into wing guards that did not interfere with his ability to fly. His head was protected by a helmet that he had turned into a pointed monstrosity that was frightening the very people he was fighting with.

"Naurlam, do you really have to wear that helm?" Aragorn asked, still looking weary from his journey back after the Warg attack.

"This helmet is fabulous and I will strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. Do you think it would look awesome if a shot lightning out of it?" James asked casually, his tail swishing eagerly.

"No it would be horrifying. We already have enough to worry about," Legolas said testily. James turned to the elf, blinking baleful golden eyes.

"I will pimp slap you through the wall, elf. We already have more people than we thought we would, what with the Redlings choosing to fight with us. And then you have me. I'm pretty frigging awesome, shooting fire out of my face and whatnot," James said, nodding to himself. One of the lingering young men looked at him as he tied a leather tunic in place.

"It's true, My Lords. There are many that are saying we are sure to win with the Dragon warrior on our sides," he said shyly.

"As well they should. Bitch, I'm a wizard," he said, holding out his hands. Draca reached over and pinched his inner arm, causing him to yelp like a kicked puppy and cringe inwards. "Mercy, mercy," he cried. She rolled her eyes at him and let go, leaning back on her staff with a small grin.

"So am I," she said haughtily. James sniffed primly and rubbed at his arm.

"You are so very cruel to me," he said with a pout. It was Phelan who appeared around the corner.

"All right, the King needs everyone up top. That means you, too, Shredder," he said, looking pointedly at James. James got an inspired look on his face. "No," Phelan said plainly. James scuffed his boots against the ground.

"Damn it..."

As the men exited the armory he could see Boromir standing to the side, speaking in hushed but fervent tones to Talun. She looked angry, and he had a desperate look on his face as he gesticulated wildly. She made a motion in return, her face twisting and her yellow eyes alight.

"_It's because I love you!_" he cried suddenly. A few people went silent around them, and Boromir's pale face colored slightly. She turned away from him, her eyes closed as tears leaked from underneath her dark lashes.

"I love you too," she whispered. "This is the reason why I will not go below. I will fight. I will fight in this battle so that my people have honor with the Rohirrim, and one day it won't be such a horrible thing that we are together," she said. He reached forward and drew her into his arms, burying his face into her hair, which had been braided back tightly in many rows, close to her scalp. Her large, pointed ears were more obvious this way, and sported a few metal earrings.

"I cannot change your mind?" he asked, his voice thick. She shook her head.

"Talun, I want you with me. You will start with the archers," Phelan said suddenly. Boromir inhaled sharply, turning his face towards Phelan.

"She will not be allowed to stay with me?" he asked. Phelan gave him a small, understanding smile.

"I've had many couples fight with me over the years, and if there is nothing that I have taken away from it, it's that you will fight better out of each other's eyesight. If you can see her you will try to watch her the whole time, and the opposite is true," he said, turning his gaze on Talun. Her brown cheeks flushed slightly. "So I will take her with me, and I promise that I will keep an eye on her, Master Boromir, and do my best to return her to you in one piece."

Boromir nodded, before adjusting his breastplate and standing straight and tall. Of course, it was a stupid question. It was done with brothers and other relatives all the time. Boromir's gaze flickered to where James was standing, and took in his ensemble. James caught him staring, and flashed him a fanged grin.

"Don't worry so much, mate. We may get some more help before the night is through," he said. Boromir narrowed his eyes at him, but was interrupted by the sound of a loud, clear horn being blown.

"That is no orc horn," Legolas said.

"At the gate! They're at the gate!" They heard a voice cry.

They moved quickly, coming upon the king as he looked down onto the ramp that led to the main gate of the keep.

"Who stands at the gate? Who are you, that bear the standard of Rhûn yet do not draw your swords?" Théoden called down. Two figures in blue robes stepped forward, each holding a staff. There seemed something familiar about them, something altogether comforting.

"We are the Blue Wizards!" Called Alatar, motioning between them. "Allies to the Free Peoples of Middle Earth and come to you in this grave time! We bring to you a force of renegades, an army of Rebels fighting the Dark Lord and wishing to ally themselves with the Men of the West. They are led by one of the Princes of the capitol of Rhûn, Prince Amir, who would speak on the behalf of his family and people."

There was silence for a few moments from Théoden, before he motioned a hand for the Prince to step forward. Amir was just above average height, with black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His golden crown sat primly on his head, contrasting with his dark skin. His armor and blue cloak were fetching and dangerous looking.

"I stand in the presence of the people of Rohan, humbling myself before you. There has been many times before when our people have stood on the opposite sides of the battlefield, our animosity sharp and our blades angry. My people have stood with the Shadow, and many still do. But there is little choice for them. We do not have such allies as the Peoples of the West. Mordor sits beneath us, simmering and boiling its hate against us if we do not comply. I come with the secret blessing of the King of Rhûn, who wants nothing but prosperity and peace for his people.

If you will have us, we will fight with you, Rohan. If you will have us, we will add our men and women to your numbers. Four hundred warriors do I bring before you, ready to submit to the will of the King of Rohan. If you turn us aside we will not stand against you. We will return to our land, but know that we will not be able to offer this alliance again," Amir said, his accented voice carrying into the air.

"Four hundred men would more than double our numbers," Aragorn said softly, standing just behind Théoden.

"We offer food and provisions of war for you, Great King of the Grasslands," Amir added, motioning behind him at several wagons in the midst of them. "And we offer the aid of wizards! Not only to the Blue Wizards stand with us, but we have four others as our allies, travelers of a great distance and gifted greatly of magic."

Sirius, Lucius, Orion and Harry were brought closer to the front standing with Alatar and Pollando as Amir spoke. There was suddenly a commotion on the top of the gate, and a large shape leapt gracefully off of the stonework, spreading large wings and landing in a crouched position below.

"_James!_" Harry cried, shoving Lucius as he rushed forward. James pulled off his helmet, dropping it to the ground as the two met each other in a few bounding steps, each clinging desperately to the other as Harry whispered into James' wild hair.

"Who is that?" Boromir asked. Phelan grinned widely.

"That is James' father, Harry Potter," he said.

"Wait…his father is…normal?" Boromir asked from atop the gate. "It somehow seems so…wrong."

"Nay. It's just right," Phelan said softly, smiling at the scene below. He saw Sirius and Orion standing there and barked out a laugh, throwing his head back and howling in greeting. Orion, standing slightly shorter than his father, jumped in surprise before he tossed back his head and returned the howl.

"Where is Draca?" Lucius asked, no longer able to stay silent as the King regarded all of them. James finally separated from his father, his eyes glimmering with joy and hope.

"She is below in the caves, heading up the healers and helping keep watch over the women and children. She will be so happy to see you," James commented. Lucius merely stared at him. James smiled sadly, and then turned his back to them, looking up at the King.

"What say you, Théoden King? These wizards are of fine caliber, and anyone allied with them would be a great boon to your army!" James called. He could see the blue eyes of the King staring out over the assembled group. As the light of day faded he could see the hope in their dark eyes as the warriors clung to their bows and spears and swords, and the hope in the eyes of the women as they held their children close.

Did he not know the feeling of being helpless to help one's people? Did he not know the horror of standing alone against the Shadow? How could he turn away such a wonderful gift? Surely Eru himself had sent them.

"Long ago our alliances cast us as enemies. We fought and died on opposite sides of the battlefield. Let us cast away the bonds of hatred and forge new ones! Let us pledge our allegiance to the betterment of our people! Let us stand against the Shadow together! Men of Rhûn. Warriors of the East. You are _most_ welcome," he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of welcome. "Open the gates!"

There was a great cheer amongst the people of Rhûn as the King of Rohan accepted them. They were allowed to enter the Deep, the warriors being quickly and efficiently separated from the civilians, who were allowed to follow escorts down into the cave to be kept safe. The several Rhûnic healers were taken to the infirmary, and the supplies of war were quickly spread amongst the soldiers. The pale men of the West and the dark men of the East clasped hands in brotherhood for the first time, the people of Rohan being relieved as their numbers swelled.

Phelan, Orion and Sirius were standing together, speaking rapidly. James and Harry were helping divide up the supplies. It was James' sharp eyes that finally caught sight of the blue-hooded figure that kept trying to blend into the shadows. Harry's eyes followed James' and he swallowed hard at the look on James' face.

"That's a Nazgûl," James said suddenly. Théoden stopped in mid-sentence with the Prince Amir, turning to James with a strange look on his face.

"What did you say?" he asked. James was staring hard at Hathalmyrn.

"That's a Nazgûl," he repeated. Hathalmyrn held up gloved hands.

"I come with the green-eyed wizard. I assure thee I wilt fight with Master's allies!" he said. Many eyes turned to Harry, who looked extremely uncomfortable.

"It's Lucius' fault!" he blurted.

"_My_ fault! You were the one who was trying to save Black from that god-forsaken fever!" Lucius snapped. "I merely severed the monster from the connection to the Dark Lord!"

"Yes, and then it bound itself to _me._ So it's your fault!" Harry returned.

"So it's ours? We have a Nazgûl? I can't….I can't even begin to explain how amazing this is," James said, peering curiously at the wraith.

"You're not concerned? How is that even possible?" Legolas asked, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as everyone stared uncomfortably at the cloaked specter.

"I'm actually rather accepting of magical mysteries…." James said, snorting a handful of sparks.

"So now there's a Nazgûl," Gimli said, looking strangely unconcerned. Harry nodded.

"It's bound to me. I control Hathalmyrn, here. Unless I order it he's as harmless as a puppy in a rainstorm," Harry said firmly, fixing the wraith with a cool glare. "Isn't that _right, _Hathalmyrn?"

"Aye, Master. Thou dost know me well," the wraith said, plucking at the unfamiliar blue robes.

"Aww...that one is _Hathalmyrn_? Can't we trade it in for the Witch King? Or maybe even Khamûl? He's pretty badass," James said. The wraith huffed slightly.

"Murazor is a pompous bastard and Khamûl prances about like a peacock, preening himself before the Dark Lord and trumpeting his successes. The youngest I may be, but thou wouldst be surprised at what _I_ have heard. Thou shouldst not underestimate me," Hathalmyrn said stubbornly. Harry saw the King of Rohan tilt his head forward, pinching the bridge of his nose and hitching up his shoulders.

"I'm getting a massive headache from all of these surprises," he groaned.

James turned to his father. "You came to fight, then?" he asked. Harry nodded.

"I know a thing or two about fighting Dark Lords. Figured I'd lend a bit of aid," he said, reaching up and running a hand through his greying hair. James saw the streaks of grey through the black hair, but did not comment on it.

"You'll be careful?" James asked quietly, sounding much-too-young at that moment. Harry put his hand on James' shoulder.

"Son, I'm the Boy-Who-_Lived_, not Died. God, James, it's like you didn't pay attention in History of Magic," Harry said, a lopsided grin coming to his face. Those watching likened it to seeing an older version of James' face, lightly lined with age and yet still exuberant.

"More like the Boy-Who-Sassed," James replied. Harry put his hand on James' head, drawing them close until their foreheads touched. Green and Gold met as father and son stared at each other intensely.

"I would never presume to try and talk you out of this battle. So I will only ask you to be careful, too. I promised your mother I'd bring you back," Harry said quietly. Harry could smell the smoke on James' breath, something he never thought he'd smell again. James smiled wanly.

"Can't upset mum. There's nowhere far away enough to hide," he replied quietly. Harry's head was thrown back as he laughed uproariously.

"Nowhere far away enough _indeed,_" he snickered. Then he clapped James on the arm. "Shall we take our places, my lad?"

"We shall, padre mine. Good luck," James said. Harry nodded sharply.

Lucius slipped quietly away from them all, disappearing into the keep in search of his granddaughter.

* * *

Celebrían stared in awe at the new wave of healers as they brought crate after crate of supplies into the room. Draca had already moved into action, ordering some of the Rohirric healers to start getting the supplies ready for the arrival of wounded.

"I'm surprised, though I shouldn't be. When there are wizards involved things can get crazy," Celebrían said, opening a box of rolled bandages to stack neatly against the wall.

"I hope to meet Morinehtar and Rómestámo soon. I met Radagast a few times. He was sweet as the basil he was so fond of carrying around," Draca said. Celebrían laughed lightly.

"Yes, well. I've met Gandalf and Saruman both, before the White Wizard betrayed us all. I must say I always liked Gandalf's personality better. Saruman is wickedly intelligent, but he was always very…" Celebrían trailed off, unsure how to diplomatically explain the wizard's temperament.

"Brusque?" she asked.

"That's a good word for it!" the elf Lady replied. They worked in silence for a bit.

"Are you excited to see your husband soon?" Draca asked. Celebrían paused, looking at the soft roll of un-dyed fabric in her hand. She took a deep breath.

"Aye. I want to look into his eyes again. They were like the sky before a summer rain, warm and comforting. The twins got their father's eyes, handsome lads as they are," Celebrían mused, a smile lighting up her face. "Elrond always had such a steadiness about him. Like a mountain, strong and tall. Yet when he held me I was in the arms of gentleness embodied. He is so…passionate. About everything he does. When he was the herald of the High King Gil-Galad, he gave himself completely. When he became the bearer of Vilya and then the Lord of Imladris he was no less loyal. When he became a husband….when he became a father," Celebrían spoke, her voice soft as tears came to her eyes. "I wish that I could have gone straight to him. He will not understand, I fear. But I feel that it will not be long before we are reunited."

"It must be nice to have someone that loves you so thoroughly," Draca said softly. Celebrían turned to her, noting the sadness in her face.

"Does the Winged Warrior not love you? He dotes on you," she said. Draca sighed.

"My grandfather never liked him, because he was half-human. And I could never go against my grandfather. He has always been my greatest ally and friend. I love him and miss him so. I thought about him many times over the years. When Saruman would switch me like an errant child, or when Gríma…when he…he…" Draca trailed off, her eyes focused on a point behind the elf-Lady. Celebrían seemed concerned for a moment, before she turned around.

A man stood at the doorway of the infirmary, dressed in travel-worn robes and scuffed boots. His face was lined lightly with age, with bright silver eyes staring at the young Peredhel that was working with her. His hair was just past his shoulders, unbound but braided back in a vaguely elven style. His whole bearing was regal and smooth.

"My sweet," he intoned gently. Draca dropped the roll of bandages she was holding and ran for him desperately, nearly throwing himself into his outstretched arms. Celebrían moved and picked up the discarded roll, smiling at the two.

"Grandfather! Grandfather you're here!" she babbled, kissing his smooth cheek as his hair, so similar to hers, tickled her face. The smell of him was like coming home again after a long day. He smelled a bit wild, and she could tell he had been travelling long, but there was an underlying scent of sandalwood and sage that burned itself into her nostrils as she buried her face into the side of his neck, sobbing in relief. He held her tightly, tucking her head under his chin as tears stained his face.

"Little one, my little one. I am here. I came for you. I love you, my little princess," he babbled gingerly in return. She pulled back, putting her hands to his face as she looked at him.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" Draca cried. He rested a hand against her cheek.

"Time and Space could not keep me from you, hatchling," he said matter-of-factly.

"Oh, _grandfather._ So much has _happened,_" she exclaimed.

"There will be time for that. I had to see you. I had to know you were safe," he said, kissing her forehead.

"As safe as can be, I suppose. I'm just helping Celebrían set up the infirmary. I feel it's going to be bad," she said. Lucius looked up at the sound of musical laughter.

"I seem to recall it was our little Green Wizard who took charge of the staff, sending them to and fro as they needed to go," Celebrían replied. Lucius looked at her.

"You're an Elf," he said softly. He had, of course, seen the glimpses of the blond Elf upstairs, but this one was a female vision of beauty and light. He'd never been fond of blokes, anyway…

"And you are Half-elf," she replied, still smiling. He heard Draca gasp, and felt her curious fingers push aside his hair, before the sweet sound of her laughter filled his ears.

"You too!" she exclaimed. He looked down at her, and she pushed aside her own long hair, revealing the delicate pointed ears. "James has been taking the mickey out of me for them!" she laughed good-naturedly.

"Black keeps making puns," Lucius grunted. Her face lit up.

"Is Orion here?" she asked.

"I meant his mangy father, but yes, the younger is here as well," he said.

"Oh! I'm glad he's safe. I've missed him too," she said. Lucius' eyes drifted back to her hair. He reached up, running his fingers through the strands. The places streaked with stressed white were textured strangely. "What happened to your hair?" he asked.

Her face changed in an instant, looking shameful and haunted.

"There is not enough time to tell you, grandfather. I have had a very difficult past few years," she said. "And that is all I will say. But I am alive. I am alive and I am not broken."

"I will get the story from you," Lucius said, taking her face in his hands and staring into her silver eyes, so much like his own. She nodded. Then he placed another kiss to her forehead.

"Must you go?" she asked.

"I'm well considering ditching them all and taking you away from this horrible place," he growled. Celebrían made a small noise of consternation.

"That would be treason," she said softly. Lucius' eyes flashed and magic crackled in the air around him like heavy static.

"I have no loyalty to anyone but myself and my family!" he replied. Draca wrapped her arms around him, pressing kisses to his face.

"Do not speak so! They need your magic and the injured will need my healing! I will stay here, you silly, stubborn, wonderful grandfather, you," Draca said, rubbing her cheek against his. He sighed.

"Very well, my love. I shall go make sure Black and Potter do not get themselves shot full of arrows," he gave in.

"Silly man," Draca said fondly. Lucius smiled broadly at her, transforming his face handsomely.

"Only for you, who has ever been as my daughter," he said softly. She returned his broad smile.

"And I hope it shall ever be so," she said. There was a few moments as she debated something. "Ada."

"Dad?" he asked.

"Draco Malfoy gave me life. But _you_ raised me. He's my father, but you're my dad. The Sindarin word describes you well. So you are my Ada," she said. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her close for several moments.

"Then your Ada I shall stay," he said.

They stayed like that for several moments more before they finally separated, allowing Draca to move backwards and Lucius to straighten his robes.

"See you soon, then," Draca said awkwardly, unwilling to say goodbye.

"Not _too_ soon, but soon enough, my love," he said, turning towards the door. "Good luck down here," he added. She nodded.

"Good luck to you too," she replied. He shuffled for a moment.

"Call me that word once more," he said quietly. Draca grinned.

"Good luck, Ada," she said strongly. He nodded, before turning and leaving. With those words still in his ears, he could feel the magic pounding in his blood. Millennia of different magics aided his power.

They would not lose.

* * *

Mwa ha ha. Such poignant reunions and sass from Harry Potter. Lolbiscuits. I am still so into this story. I hope you all love the humor and emotion that I try to keep balanced. Does it come off well, or do I lay on the humor too heavily sometimes? I dunno. Mainly it's James I worry about, but when I try to temper him in a scene he basically shoves up both middle fingers and farts fiery comedy all over a scene. :/

Well I've said it before: follow or favorite, but please please please Review! It's my bread and butter. I wuv it.


	27. For Blood and Family

Well. Fuck. It's been over a week. To be fair…I've been busy. Not a good excuse, but good enough. I've also been working a little bit on the Orc-girl story. (Not much.) Honestly. I've got some great ideas, though. XD I wanted to thank everyone for their amazing outpouring of their support for the humor of this story. I do like to have a balance of serious and funny. I'm just glad I'm pulling it off!

}:] I finally brought something else amazing to the story. I have been hinting and alluding to it for some time now, but I never officially did anything…UNTIL NOW. Mwa ha ha. So enjoy, and be sure to let me know how you feel!

(Friend horseyyay – I did know that it was technically the huorns that went a shit ton angry on the Uruks at Helm's Deep, but for the sake of simplicity and such, I decided to make it the Ents. I really, really, really like the movie scene of this, and of course Sir Jackson never differentiated between the huorns and the Ents, so everyone was forced to assume that it was the ents. I forgot to comment on this last chapter. But I feel ya. I'm picking up what you're throwing down.)

* * *

Chapter 27 – For Blood and family

Sometime later, as the sun had gone completely over the horizon, they watched the army advance on the keep. Their metal-shod feet stamped sharply against the ground, their shields glittering dully in the torchlight they bore.

"If they're anything like Sceadu, their night vision is inferior to their cousins," James said, holding a longbow in his hand. He had no arrows with him, because he was going to use bolts of magic. They were formed on his will alone, with a deadly impact and the added benefit of not running out as long as he had energy. His father stood next to him, his wand held to his side, the tip glittering with a rainbow of spells that were ready to be cast at their master's whim.

Phelan stood with the Redling archers, who had also adopted many of the Rohirrim and Rhûnic archers as their own, standing strategically across the wall for both cover and fire. The Redlings were fast approaching battle frenzy, their teeth gnashing as they bellowed challenges toward the approaching Uruk army. The Rhûnic soldiers had their own shrill battle cries that had frightened their Rohirrim allies at first, but now that they truly understood the men and women of Rhûn were on their side, the ghastly calls also bolstered their own spirits.

Boromir stood with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, watching the vast army approach.

"Is it foolish to be afraid?" Boromir asked, his heart hammering against his ribcage. He had parted with Talun almost an hour ago as she took her place with her people. He stood with the remainder of the Fellowship, near enough to the wizards to see their magic glittering, yet far enough that he could not hear as the blue-robed wizards conversed with each other. The tall, blond wizard stood aside from the others, his silver eyes like stars along the torch lit battlement.

"I would think you foolish to not be afraid, brother," Aragorn said, clapping a hand to Boromir's shoulder. "Our numbers have swelled with unexpected allies. I feel in my heart that victory, while costly, will be ours," he added, his grey eyes glittering darkly. Boromir's own grey gaze lifted to the face of the man that was his King.

"I never expected to fight side-by-side with Men of the East," Boromir said, looking to where Prince Amir stood with Théoden King. "But I am not displeased."

"Aye. And descendants of Orcs and Uruks have found themselves in our midst. And in our hearts," Aragorn said slyly, watching as Boromir's face pinked up slightly. "Your father will not approve," Aragorn admonished lightly. Boromir inhaled deeply.

"The Steward would bow gracefully to the will of the King," Boromir returned. Aragorn clapped Boromir's shoulder with a roguish grin, before leaning close as though to tell a secret.

"You must be hopelessly besotted," Aragorn said conspiratorially.

"And how do you gather that?" Boromir asked, his voice slightly clipped.

"Because only someone who is arse-over-elbows in love would be so foolishly devious!" he replied. Boromir sighed.

"We are about to fight a grave battle...surely it is not the appropriate time to take the piss out of me?" Boromir asked. Legolas and Gimli, who had been standing nearby listening, finally decided to add their silver's worth.

"Friends do not let friends go untormented, even into battle. It just means we care," Legolas purred.

"Keep your spirits high, lad!" Gimli laughed, eager for battle and giddy with the lust for it.

"If they should fall, I'm sure the pretty little lady could find a way to, uh, 'raise them,' if you catch my meaning," Legolas teased. Gimli guffawed.

Legolas' keen eyes scanned the archers, watching as a few of them nocked arrows. He saw raw magic sparkling on the tips of Naurlam's fingers, ready to be released like an arrow. As he passed over a small group of older Rohirrim, he watched in a sort of horror as an older man was unable to hold his bow nocked, and released the arrow prematurely. He did see the arrow fly gracefully, landing just between the helmet and breastplate of an Uruk. The creature stood for a moment, surprised, before falling forward. The rest of the army roared in anger. An impressive, if ill-timed shot.

Behind him, Théoden King stepped forward with the Prince of Rhûn, a concerned look on his face.

"So it begins."

* * *

"He's really going at it."

"Indeed, it's both horrifying and awe-inspiring."

"Look, look! There's one of the others leading a group away!"

Pippin looked where Merry was pointing, noticing one of the large tree-people shepherding a group of Uruks away from the tall tower of Orthanc. He could see the smaller forms of children among them, either being carried or ushered along.

The tall, slender ent led the Uruks to where the Hobbits had been put aside. Nalt and Hugi both emerged from the large group, each holding a child in each arm.

"Nalt! You were able to save them!" Merry said. He noticed then that there were many human men and women among them, some of them shackled with iron collars with broken chains still connected.

"There were many lashed in the breeding pits, and many slaves collared in pens. Very few were left to guard them," she said, putting down her burden.

"What is this?" One Uruk male growled, pointing at the Hobbits. "These are our saviors? They would barely make a meal!"

Nalt turned and slashed her claws down the male's face, causing him to yelp.

"What their bodies lack in size, their hearts make up for! We can be allowed to be free with them! Would you rather go back and let them take the rest of the flesh off of your back with a whip?" she snarled.

"Come, my friends! Those too weak to fight must bring the children into the center. If you feel up to a bit of defense, make a circle around them. I do not foresee anyone making it this far to bother us, but better safe than sorry!" Merry cried, willing himself not to be afraid of the broad Uruks.

There was a moment of indecision, when the large creatures were unsure whether or not to obey the wee Hobbit, before Nalt began gathering up the children. A few of the injured and more submissive of them joined the circle, keeping the young in the midst of them. The others, who were not starved or beaten into submission, kept a loose circle around the others, sitting and watching as the remaining guards of Isengard were destroyed.

When the river was undammed and the pits of Isengard flooded, there were many shuddering sobs as they thought of what would have happened had two little Hobbits not sent spies among them to empty out the bowels of the Wizard's lair.

* * *

James drew the string of his bow, a glimmering bolt of magic appearing in the string, before it was set loose. He didn't have to worry about aiming between the armor. It was mass produced armor. While it was thick and not easily pierced by regular arrows, it was not protected against the bolts of magic James was setting loose. They penetrated the armor easily, detonating inside of their targets and killing them instantly.

His father's wand blazed with a deadly kaleidoscope of colors, incapacitating and destroying many of the Uruks. Legolas' arrows were deadly accurate as well, raining death down into the army. Many of the arrows of the Rhûnic warriors were alight when they fell, and the arrows held a small vial of highly flammable liquid that caught when the arrows broke against the Uruks. Many fell in flames, their dying shrieks infuriating their brethren.

There was suddenly an unearthly shriek as Hathalmyrn launched himself off of the battlement, flying like a black shadow and surprising the army of Isengard. Many Uruks tried to fire arrows against him, but he flew like demon, banking and swirling like smoke as he shrieked mercilessly. At one point he dove, twirling his pale sword like a tornado, and taking off the heads of several Uruks.

When he returned to the wall, Harry gave him a clap across his bony shoulder, nearly taking his arm out of its socket.

"Way to go, Hath!" Harry crowed, before sending a tingly purple spell at an Uruk.

Hathalmyrn would have beamed if he'd had a face.

* * *

"We need clean water!" Pippin called up to the ent that was guarding them. The wooden creature tilted its face at them, taking in the thin, frightened faces of the children and the drawn faces of the adults.

"I will do this, Hobbit. Stay safe, or Treebeard will have my bark," the tree said slowly, before ambling off toward where the river had been dammed up, to a place that would have clear water.

"All right! My name is Merry, and this is my cousin, Pippin! We are Hobbits of the Shire. We are not here to harm you. We want to help!" Merry said loudly.

"Why?" Piped up a voice. It was a male slave from Isengard, dressed only in a tattered cloth that covered his privates. Merry blinked.

"Because. If we don't help each other, then who will?" he asked simply.

"And why are the Uruks part of your rescue mission?" a dark-skinned female asked. She was swollen with pregnancy, her yellow eyes lidded with fatigue. Merry took a deep breath.

"You have been greatly wronged. You have been brought into this world as pawns of another. No one deserves such unkindness. Not Man, Elf, Orc, Uruk, or any sentient, living creature deserves such horrors as have been bestowed upon you. Those who want to live in peace should be allowed it. No one should be forced to fight," Merry said.

"No fight?" A little Uruk boy asked. His hair was thick and tightly curled, cut short against his head. It almost looked like the wool of a black sheep. Merry stepped forward through the midst of them, coming to where the boy stood. The little Uruk was nearly taller than Merry, and so the Hobbit took the little boy's face in his hands and leaned forward, kissing his brow gently.

"No fight," Merry said. The boy tilted his head, bright orange eyes glittering.

"What dat?" he asked, pointing at his forehead where Merry had kissed him.

"That was a kiss," Merry said, a bit surprised.

"What kiss?" Merry felt his eyes burn.

"A kiss is a kindness. It means someone cares," he said, and kissed the boy again. A little Uruk girl hobbled to her feet, tugging on Merry's waist coat. He turned to her, a smile on his face.

"I wan' kiss too…" she said shyly. Merry scooped her up with a laugh, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. She squealed with delight.

Many of the Uruks watched in bewildered delight as both of the Hobbits descended on the children, leaving no cheek un-kissed. It was this time that the ent returned, a large barrel held in his hands. It placed the barrel down, and handed two dippers to Merry. Merry handed the other to Pippin.

"All right, my friends. I know you must be thirsty. We will make two neat lines, and I promise you will all get water. If you have a neighbor who cannot stand on their own, help them!" Merry said.

And so it was that Man and Uruk helped each other into the line to receive drinks of water from the kindly Hobbits. When their thirsts were sated and the water nearly gone, Merry and Pippin found themselves in the center of their sordid group, distracting the children from the mayhem not too far away with tales of mischief from the Shire.

He even caught sight of a few smiles on the faces of the adults.

* * *

"Dago hon! Dago hon!" Aragorn cried to Legolas, pointing towards the large orc bearing the torch. Legolas fired arrow after arrow, but the thick hide was resistant. Its head was protected by a thick helmet, and the arrows were barely doing any damage anywhere else. The berserker fell bodily into the alcove beneath the wall, and there was a split-second before the entire thing blew, sending men, orcs, and debris flying.

Many were killed instantly, and many were crushed by the falling chunks of wall. There were screams of agony as shards of stone sliced through flesh. There were several moments while both sides recovered from the blast, before the Uruks rushed the newly formed hole and entered with roars.

Théoden watched the scene with horror. The Uruks were howling with rage and battle lust, and the warriors of Rohan and Rhûn were doing their best to hold them back. But despite having doubled their numbers, it was still less than eight hundred warriors against ten thousand. And it was starting to show.

"Brace the gate! Hold them!" Théoden cried. He heard the sudden wet crunch of steel piercing flesh, and turned to see Prince Amir kick an Uruk from his sword, that would have cloven his head from his shoulders with a sweep of its blade. The dark-skinned prince nodded respectfully at the King, and then both were whirling about the invading Uruks, dealing death and fear to them.

James stood along the Deeping Wall, his end having not been destroyed by the blast. He was still picking off Uruks with magic bolts, but Sirius and his father had dropped below to fight with swords. Churning in his gut was the swift twisting of battle lust. He had not felt this in Moria, when battle had come and gone too swiftly to affect him. Here, when he had been given time to expect the battle and then enjoy the carnage, he had ignited a deep, insatiable fire.

His teeth ached for blood, his chest heaving from the effort of not dropping below. And to make matters worse, he had the most inopportunely timed battle-boner ever. He was tempted to skull-fuck a few Uruks… But instead James tilted his head towards the sky, watching the thick black clouds roll over the moon and stars. His face was struck with a fat droplet of water, and he sneered. The Redlings were resorting to ripping out throats now, their blood lust conquering them.

It felt like days since the battle had started, but it had only been a little over two hours. He was waiting. He hoped they came quickly. He was afraid his summons had been ignored. If it had, they were going to have an extremely difficult go, even with many wizards, the Redlings, the army of Rhûn, and a Nazgûl.

As quickly as the thought came he heard a distant sound. The clouds cleared the moon and he saw a most welcome sight. They were coming in like a glittering cloud themselves, the moonlight gleaming on their hides.

"What is that?" he heard Théoden shout. James bounded over to where the King stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. The King of Rohan looked at him intensely.

"Those are my people, King. I have brought you dragons," James said, grinning broadly. The King's fair eyebrows shot up.

"Dragons! How in the world did you get dragons?" he asked. James merely looked at him, spreading his wings slightly and pointing to his own face.

"Look at me! I _am_ a fucking dragon! Those are _my_ allies!" he said proudly. He then jumped atop the scarred battlement and threw back his head, shrieking a loud song into the sky. It rose above even the noise of the rampaging Uruks.

The noise was answered tenfold. Many of the Uruk foes paused and turned, looking up into the sky at the source of the noise. It was then that the cloud descended. Fire rained down on the Uruk army, cutting a swath of molten light and destruction. Then there was a flash of blue and intense cold, freezing many of the Uruks solid and killing them instantly. Lightning crackled from the muzzle of one of the beasts, and an Uruk was caught in the electrifying blast. It was burned from the inside, its muscles seizing and its body jerking in intense agony as it was electrocuted.

Then the cloud of glittering winged serpents flew over the battlements, landing in a ring where James was, high above the broken Deeping wall. There were ten in all, similarly sized of James in his dragon form. Several were smaller, being the size of a pony or a large dog. There were several different colors. Two were intensely blue, their scales glittering like ice. Three were green with pinkish webbing between their wings and large, twisting horns coming out of their heads. One was white, its eyes the color of the sea and its wings covered in sharp, stiff looking feathers and its hide shaggy. There were two more feathered dragons, one in red and the other yellow, both with intense purple eyes. There was a brown dragon with bright green eyes and a white snout, his broad front and back paws colored white up to his elbows and knees, with a broad spiked tail.

The last was deeply purple with a majestic crown of gold ridges going down his back and to the tip of his spaded tail. His claws were like gold, shimmering in the torchlight, and his eyes were slitted red. He had large, curved horns like a bull that glittered gold as well. He was the largest dragon, the size of a horse and magnificent in stature and bearing. James approached the purple dragon, bowing low at the waist.

"Your majesty," he said. The purple dragon tilted its head down before taking in the people around him. He made a move towards James, walking around him and looking him up and down.

"I came when I heard your summons. Jewelhide is in charge of the Kingdom until I get back," the dragon said, reaching over and brushing his snout across James' cheek in greeting.

"We could vastly use the help, Lord King," James said. He gestured to Théoden. "This is Théoden, King of Rohan." The purple dragon bowed its head to Théoden, who stood with his mouth open. "Théoden King, this is Goldhorn, the King of the Dragon settlement in Angmar." The Dragon King pulled his lips from his teeth in a draconic grin, before spreading his gold-tipped wings wide.

"Come, my guard! We will lend help to the Men under the protection of Shadewing!" he shouted. The dragons came up on their hind legs with roars of pleasure, before each took off again to fly over the Uruk army. James watched them go, a pleased look on his face. He yelped when someone punched his arm quite solidly. He turned to look into Boromir's face.

"What in Eru's most almighty name was _that_?" he snarled. James rubbed his arm.

"I kept fucking alluding to my alliance with the dragons. It's not my fault everyone thought I was joking. Fuck off, Boromir," James growled. James happened to look over and see his father looking at him. The man's green eyes glittered dangerously. _'We will talk,'_ His father mouthed, and James found himself feeling like a kid who had been caught stealing from the candy jar. Then he snarled to himself and changed into his dragon form, taking wing over top of the Uruk army like his winged brethren.

He would be _damned_ if he'd be ashamed of bringing the dragons into this!

* * *

Gandalf rode hard on Shadowfax, with Éomer riding beside him. They would _just_ make it to the Deep in time to help, trusting that Théoden King and the rest of the Rohirrim there had not been destroyed. Gandalf felt sure that they had not, but it would be a very close thing. Two thousand men rode behind them, their shields and spears ready to help their King.

They came quite suddenly on a camp. At first Gandalf thought it was a camp of Orcs, their Warg mounts sitting around the perimeter, guarding their fell masters. But then he realized with a start that the group was a group of Redlings. It was a large group, nearly a hundred strong, and they stood facing them with arrows and spears at the ready.

"Redlings!" Gandalf called, cantering forward on Shadowfax. He held his hand out to steady the nervous Rohirrim riders. A short, crimson-cloaked figure stepped forward. "Give me your name, Master Redling. What business have you here?" he asked.

"I am called Stargush among my people. We are two groups combined, Lord Wizard, heading back to our home. You know us by our assumed name, so you must know what we are," the voice was rough and accented; his gloved hands were rubbing together nervously.

"I know what you are. Your Wolfmaster and the founder of your village are now with the King of Rohan, fighting to protect the land that you inhabit! Will you follow me to aid your brothers and sisters?" Gandalf called. Éomer moved forward, his face pinched.

"We do not want the help of more orcs!" he spat. Gandalf turned to him, pinning him with brilliant blue eyes.

"We will accept the help of every sword, spear and bow that there is available. Do not forget that you are only two thousand strong, and the Uruk-hai have marched on Helm's Deep with ten thousand men," Gandalf said briskly.

"Isengard has emptied itself against Rohan?" the figure asked, standing up straighter. "If Gismblog and the Wolfmaster stand with Rohan, then the rest of us will too. Won't we, boys?" the figure asked. The others shouted out an affirmative. "We have as much at stake with the protection of Rohan as the horse-lords do," he said, whistling sharply. A shaggy brown wolf ambled up to him, looking far more Warg than Wolf. But the creature nuzzled him loyally, and so none moved against it.

"Shall you ride with us, Redlings?" Gandalf called.

"Mount up! We ride with the wizard and the horse-masters of Rohan! We ride for the protection of the grasslands and their King! We ride for blood and family! Redlings, ho!" The voice called. The camp was disbanded in a matter of moments, and the Redlings were ready to ride with the backup force of Rohirrim. Gandalf grinned broadly and assumed the lead again.

"On, Redlings! On Rohirrim! Forth to war!" he cried, pointing his staff forward as Shadowfax took off. He was answered with the roar of twenty-one hundred voices.

"_To war!_"

* * *

Forth, Eorlingas!

Oh…uh…I guess I'm a little early for that one. Lulz. So here's the deal. I'm adding a _shit ton_ of allies to Rohan for this battle. And it's really simple why: I call complete and utter bullshit on how the Rohirrim won. I know they had the help of an angry haunted forest…but they should have really been annihilated before the trees got there. There were three hundred men there, many of which were either really too young or too old to fight. So let's say there were only about two hundred to two hundred and fifty men there in the prime of their age for fighting. That would be assuming they were all soldiers, which they were NOT. These were farmers and villagers. They should have been mowed down like so much grass.

Now, I added the Redling warriors. That's forty warriors if the young ones fight, which they are. Then I added the warriors of Rhûn. That, like Aragorn said, more than doubled their numbers. That gave them seven hundred and forty warriors. Then I gave them ten dragons. That's seven hundred and fifty beings against ten thousand Uruks. When Éomer arrives with Gandalf the grand total goes up to twenty-eight hundred and fifty warriors.

That would assume that not one person was killed from the start of battle to when the others arrive, which is of course total crap. A lot of people died, especially at the breaking of the Deeping wall and the ensuing breach.

So all-in-all I have been merely trying to even up the odds a little, to give a realistic battle of Helm's Deep. As wonderful as their victory was, it was utterly unrealistic for me. (And my numbers were even before we get those angry little trees in there. XD)

So I hope you've liked the start of the Battle of Helm's Deep. I hope it's not too crazy for you. I hope you got a little misty-eyed with Merry and Pippin and the Uruks. I know I did. As always, I hope you Favorite or Follow, but it's my sincerest hope that I did well enough to get a Review! It's always nice to hear if the chapter is going as well as I hope it is!


	28. The Cost of War

Well. That was much quicker than anticipated. Lol. I didn't get as much response as I thought. Ah well.

Horseyyay – I'm not upset about it. I don't mind at all if people point out mistakes or things I've missed. I'm only human, after all! We can't all be perfect like the elves. :3

getlostD91 – I didn't feel like I _glossed over_ some of the aspects of battle, but then again I'm highly biased and don't see everything from the same perspective you do. :) I'm glad you like the story. I hope the next chapter fills your heart with excitement. I tried to get some pretty good action from a lot of people in there. :D

guest (I don't know your name :( but I'll respond anyway) – I do see where you are coming from with a fort being able to be run by few people. But in RL I did try to take into consideration that a fort would not be attacked by magically-altered Uruk-hai. :/ A normal old human army would have definitely been held back with few people. But the Uruks also had the 'fire of Isengard' or in layman's terms 'fucking bombs.' XD And not only were they genetically more powerful than the humans, the people in Helm's Deep were not soldiers. They were going there to avoid war, but war found them anyway. The breaching of the Deeping Wall was also a huge point of contention for me. Once they actually breached the wall, then all of that impressive stonework would not have been much help for them. Just like the Titanic – blast a hole in it and the whole thing fills up. I'm glad you're enjoying the siege, and I'm also glad that you pointed that out to me. It gave me a chance to explain my reasoning. :) I hope it all still makes sense to you. Don't be afraid to point anything else out that I may bugger up. And as to your question about the Hallows – Harry didn't keep the Elder Wand. In the movie he broke it, but in the book he put it back with Dumbledore. The Stone of Resurrection was lost somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, dropped before Harry walked to Voldemort. He kept the Cloak. That one might make an appearance, but for all I'm concerned Harry is just a powerful wizard.

All in all, everyone, I'm still trying to keep it realistic. Even with dragons. And wizards. And a Dwarf. And elves- oh fuck it, we're in a war and I'm trying to keep Rohan from getting ass-raped by the army of Isengard. Hold on to your butts!

* * *

Chapter 28 – The Cost of War

Gimli's axe found purchase in the unprotected thigh of an Uruk, dropping it to its knees where he quickly finished it off with a sweep across its throat. He was bathed in a wave of sticky orc-blood, and he growled in appreciation of a good fight as his axe swung upwards to block the downward sweep of another Uruk's sword. He kicked out with a booted foot, twisting his short leg so that he kicked the Uruk's knee viciously. It didn't quite take the creature to its knees, but it did make it bow low enough to have its head taken off by the sharp Dwarven axe.

"Come to me, my pretties. Come to Gimli's axe and let him deal death to you!"

"It is considered a sign of mental instability to talk to oneself," said the musical voice of Legolas nearby. Gimli looked up as Legolas caught the blade of an Uruk with his twin knives, before sweeping it aside and burying a blade on each side of the creature's neck.

"Ah, but in the heat of battle it is perfectly normal!" Gimli exclaimed, hacking through an Uruk's knee.

"I say, friend Gimli, that you cannot possibly kill more Uruks than I!" Legolas boasted, burying his knife under the chin of an off-guard Uruk.

"Well, my pointy-eared little princeling, I am already at fourteen. Surely you haven't-,"

"Twenty-one," Legolas interrupted, before finding a weakness between the breast plate and back plate of an Uruk that he buried his knife in. "Twenty two."

"Aulë's hammer! I won't be beaten by a prancing elf!"

* * *

Harry twirled with the Sword of Gryffindor, blocking a black blade before shoving his wand up into the helmet of the orc and releasing a blasting curse that took its head off messily. The body dropped heavily with a sickening squelch. He lifted the hand that clutched his wand desperately, wiping away a bit of sweat and black blood from his face. Several of the hulking creatures had he killed.

And yet...they were like a wave of roaches, killed easily but still swarming. His robes were weighed heavily with their gore, his boots soaked through and thudding against the ground. The sword of an Uruk caught him across the arm, before he whirled and sent another blaster through the visor of its helmet, blowing its brains out through a new hole in its helmet. He bumped someone, and started to bring down the sword of Gryffindor before another blade caught it, pushing it away.

He came face to face with Lucius Malfoy, and he took a relieved breath. Malfoy was a frightful specter. He had taken some of the thick black blood and painted war stripes on his face, looking terribly tribal and dangerous. His hair was finally pulled back, revealing the pointed ears that had been gifted him upon their arrival in this world. His hands were bathed with blood as he swung the heavy, borrowed Rohirric sword with deadly ease.

"Scared, Potter?" Malfoy purred dangerously, deflecting a blade with a well-timed shield charm, before taking off the arm of the Uruk that had swung it.

"I've battled an eighty foot Basilisk, fought over a hundred Dementors at once, competed in the Tri-Wizard tournament, faced down Voldemort more times than I own pairs of shoes, and put Dark Wizards away for a living for over thirty years. Just because I don't like battle doesn't make me afraid of it," Harry snarled, using a Knockback jinx to fling an Uruk into a large group of his foul brethren, and saving a warrior of Rhûn in the process. "There's so many."

"Aye. There's very many," Lucius commented, ducking a blade and grabbing the arm of the one who tried to hit him. He brought his elbow up sharply, breaking the creature's arm before putting it out of its misery with a Piercing Hex under the arm, which penetrated the flesh like a bullet and exploded its heart.

"War is hell, Malfoy. That's what I've learned," Harry said, wiping his hand across his face again to clear some sweat.

Lucius looked around, silver eyes alight with magic and adrenaline. Many Uruks lay dead, and many Men lay with them, dressed in the farmer's garb of Rohan and the leather and blue garb of the Renegades of Rhûn. He turned away as one of the younger boys of Rohan was impaled on an Uruk's blade, before he cast the unforgiving green Killing Curse at the one who had killed the boy, seeking instant vengeance. The boy's dying sob made his heart clench.

Many of these fighting were too young for this! It reminded him painfully of Draco, thrust into a war not of his own making and forced to fight for survival. The Second Wizarding War had cost many lives, destroyed many families, and divided many homes. How any lives would be gone before the night was over? How many families would not survive the next winter without fathers to work the fields and sons to help? How many homes had and would be burned to the ground? And why? For what end? Hatred. Potter was right...

War is hell.

* * *

The scream of an Uruk made his ears ring as he slashed out with his claws, biting into armor and flesh. He grabbed the Uruk solidly, bringing it to his mouth and ripping off the helmet before sinking his teeth into its throat, tearing out a mouthful of flesh and bathing his snout in the thick blood. The feel of the slick blood on his paws and snout made him shudder with pleasure. He tossed aside the dead Uruk, seeking another victim.

They were trying to avoid the dragons, with good reason. Sharp claws, teeth, horns and tails were dealing death and pain. Intense hot and cold breath killed instantly. Stormsnout's electrifying breath was an extremely painful death, burning and causing the muscles to seize until the receiving creature broke its own neck with its spasms.

Goldhorn dropped his head and brought it up sharply, goring an Uruk on one of his horns. His purple scales were already marred in places with gobs of blood. As quickly as the Uruks were being killed, though, they were being replaced by others in just as much of a blood lust as any of the dragons and Redlings.

He heard the piercing scream of a dragon, and turned to see Snowpaw fall, two Uruks on his back and another two surrounding his paws. His paws had been caught with a device of rope, tying them together and tripping the dragon. One of the sharp blades was shoved up under Snowpaw's front leg, making use of the weak softer hide there to pierce the skin. Goldhorn bellowed in rage and charged, lowering his head and goring one of the Uruks on top of Snowpaw, before whirling and kicking the other from his lieutenant.

The others fled before Goldhorn could unleash a cloud of fiery breath. Snowpaw's eyes were whirling in agony as deep red blood stained his brown scales.

"My King...I let down my guard," the dragon gasped. Goldhorn ripped away the ropes around the white forepaws, before grabbing the slightly smaller dragon and pulling him onto his back. He ran back to the Men's fortress, entering the breached wall and seeking the Men that had been taking down the injured to the caves.

"Can you manage a larger patient?" the Dragon King asked. One of the Men froze, his mouth open in horror at the sight of the dragons. Then the King rolled his crimson eyes in impatience. "He is injured!" he barked. The other snapped into action, seeking a canvas litter to put the brown and white dragon on. Once Snowpaw was draped across the stretcher, it took three men to drag the injured dragon below. Goldhorn watched for a moment as they pulled him away, before turning at running back into the fray.

There would be hell to pay for this.

* * *

Draca was bent over a young man, sewing a large gash in his stomach. He had been brought down as an aftermath of the breach of the Deeping Wall. A shard of stone had nearly gutted him like a fish, and only the presence of another Rohir near him had saved him. Unfortunately it had also been the death of the man next to him. His sobs were wracking his body, and it took two healers to hold him down while she stitched him.

When the stitches were in place she quickly swiped the wound as clean as possible and made a quick swipe with thick ointment before moving to the next patient. A woman of Rhûn was gasping for breath, a thick Uruk arrow protruding from her side, just past the seam of her thick leather armor. Draca dunked her hands quickly into a basin of water and vinegar to clean the blood off, before grasping the shaft of the arrow. The arrow had pierced the lung, and it was only several whispered spells that kept the woman's lung from collapsing as the arrow was removed and the wound sewn up.

She came to an older man of Rohan in time to hold his hand as his wounds proved fatal. She closed her eyes for a moment, whispering a prayer over the now-still body, before she had to call for someone to move the man's body so that a place could be cleared for more injured. She choked back a sob as she moved to a pale Rohir, more child than young man. He had been cut from his left knee up his thigh, across his stomach, and over his torso to his right shoulder in a continuous, vicious gash.

His fair hair was caked with his own blood from a head wound, and he was splashed liberally with black Uruk blood. His lidded eyes looked up at her, tears spilling over his lower lids and making tracks in the blood. She rinsed her hands quickly again, before touching his forehead. He was cold to the touch.

"Hullo, little one," she said gently, using a thin healer's blade to cut away his clothes. He whimpered lowly as she used moistened cloth to clean away the wound. "This is some cut! It must hurt very much," she added conversationally. She saw his head nod slightly. "But look at you! You're being very brave. Now, I'm afraid it will hurt when I sew this cut up, but I promise to be as gentle as I can."

His face twisted as he began to cry. Draca shushed him gently as she readied the needle and thread. Then she began to sing softly as she drew the long, curved needle through his flesh.

_"Many nights we've prayed_  
_With no proof anyone could hear._  
_In our hearts a hopeful song_  
_We barely understood._

_Now we are not afraid,_  
_Although we know there's much to fear._  
_We were moving mountains long_  
_Before we knew we could._

_There can be miracles when you believe._  
_Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill._  
_Who knows what miracles you can achieve?_  
_When you believe, somehow you will._  
_You will when you believe."_

His breath shuddered in his throat as he tried to keep from jerking. Draca stopped singing for a moment as she swiped some blood out of the way to continue sewing.

"Please, miss," A voice to her left said. A man with a spear broken off in his gut laid there, a Rhûnic healer dealing with him. She turned her head slightly, before her eyes went back to the boy. "Please don't stop singing. That song…that song…" he gurgled.

_"In this time of fear_  
_When prayer so often proved in vain._  
_Hope seemed like the summer birds_  
_Too swiftly flown away._

_Yet now I'm standing here_  
_With heart so full I can't explain._  
_Seeking faith and speaking words_  
_I never thought I'd say._

_There can be miracles when you believe._  
_Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill._  
_Who knows what miracles you can achieve?_  
_When you believe, somehow you will._  
_You will when you believe."_

The boy under her hands had passed out, his face chalk white from blood loss. She finished his stitches and swiped the bleeding wound again before thickly covering it in the antiseptic ointment. The man next to them had survived getting the spear from his gut, but it was unsure whether or not he would make it through the night. As she passed, she rested her hand on his forehead. His fevered eyes looked up at her and she gave him a smile before stroking a bead of sweat away from his eyes.

"_Who knows what miracles you can achieve? When you believe, somehow you will. You will when you believe,"_ she sang gently. He smiled shakily before mercifully passing out. Draca turned her face away, tears coming thickly, before moving to the next injury. Again she came just in time to be of little comfort as the man died. She cursed angrily, and felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned to see the tired eyes of Celebrían.

"I couldn't help," Draca sniffled.

"We can only try. Mandos takes the others off to a better peace than they could have here," the elf lady replied. Draca nodded. "Come, I hear someone shouting about an injured dragon."

Panicking, Draca moved quickly to where the beast had been dragged, a spare corner large enough to accommodate. It was not James, she thought with relief, but then confusion took her. What in Eru's name…?

Then she had to laugh in near hysterics and roll her eyes. Surely it was James' doing! She was the only one brave enough to take her supplies to the injured dragon. Its chest heaved with injured breaths, and she ended up having to use magic to pierce holes that she could pass her needle through to draw the jagged flesh closed. Then she cleaned the patch of flesh and covered it with ointment. As she stood the dragon's claw closed around her wrist. She gasped, surprised.

"You must be…Shadewing's mate. He spoke…often of you. The one with corn-silk hair…and eyes like…Man's silver," the dragon grunted. She smiled.

"I can only assume you mean James," she said. The dragon nodded, groaning softly. "I'm sorry, I must go. Rest now." And she gingerly pulled her wrist away, patting the dragon's paw gently before moving back amongst the injured. Snowpaw watched her retreat.

"Shadewing was right….she does have…a gentle heart…"

* * *

Talun's blade rang against the thick black blade of her father's people. The Uruk she was battling pushed against her sword, getting in her face.

"You are like us! Why do you fight for Tarks?" it snarled, its foul breath making her wrinkle her nose as she shoved against the blade suddenly, pushing the larger opponent off balance. The tip of her blade swung forward quickly, resting against the hollow of the Uruk's throat. The creature held still as she leaned forward slightly.

"I fight with my mother's people because I would rather fight and die freely then live as a wizard's slave!" she snarled, pushing the sword forward into the throat of the Uruk. It gagged once and spat up a gob of black blood, before the light went from its eyes and it died. Talun kicked the Uruk off of her blade.

She passed the pair of blue-eyed wizards, twirling with their backs to each other and blasting opponents with various spells.

"_Reducto! Reducto! Defodio! Bombarda!" _Sirius howled. Two blasting curses, a gouging spell, and an explosion charm made work of ten Uruks, either killing them directly or by the exploding shrapnel of their neighbors' armor.

Orion's spells were just as deadly. "_Diffindo!"_ Quick use of the Severing charm took off the arm of an Uruk up to its elbow, before he pressed his wand underneath the helmet. "_Bombarda!" _The gory explosion took off the Uruk's head and sent its helmet flying upwards. He looked up in time to see one of the Redlings looking at him, her yellow eyes full of tears. For a moment he was ashamed of his violence, before he saw her shake her head.

"We fight to win! No mercy will we receive, so none should we give!" she called. He nodded, before sending off a quick _Relashio_, or releasing charm, that made an Uruk release its blade before it could take off the Redling woman's head. She quickly stabbed the creature and knocked the body away, before turning to Orion and nodding her thanks.

Orion took a moment to look around. They were doing quite well…but despite their best efforts the army was still advancing. The gaping hole in the Deeping Wall _definitely _didn't help. He was tired. Casting such spells was impressive and made it rather easy to take out enemies without any sort of magical protection, but it was certainly very draining. He glanced over and saw Alatar and Pollando fighting with staff and sword before a sharp pain went up his side. He opened his mouth in silent agony, before looking down to see the broad side of an Uruk blade buried deep in his side.

A frightening green Killing Curse flew by his head and killed the Uruk instantly. The Uruk's heavy body hit the ground just as Orion's legs gave out. He landed in someone's arms, and looked up to see his father's panicked face.

"Orion! Orion, no!" his father wailed. Sirius gathered his son into his arms and set out for the keep, trying to get him to safety. Orion's vision was blurring as he watched his father's face as if from a growing distance. "Hold on, son!" came the faraway voice. He could taste blood, and ended up spitting out a mouthful before darkness claimed him and his head fell back.

* * *

James had taken back his two-legged form, dancing between blades and claws as the sword that he'd been given by Celeborn sang through the air, slicing through flesh and bone with ease. Fire danced along the blade, and every so often he would fling a blob of flaming energy off of the tip of the sword, letting it land on the armor of an Uruk. It was a gruesome death, to be sure. The armor melted, searing flesh and roasting the creature alive in the very equipment that was supposed to protect it.

He tossed his sword upwards, grabbing an Uruk's helmet and snapping its neck before catching the blade as it came down again and shoving it into a chin. He took a moment to shove an Uruk's head to the side and bury his teeth into its throat. He severed the jugular with a jerk of his teeth and gulped greedily as the bitter, hot blood gushed into his mouth. He flung the corpse away and let his rage quiver through him, shuddering his entire body as a ripple of magic swirled around his feet. He called the magic to him and it expanded outward, slamming into several Uruks at once with the force of a freight train. Their armor crumpled inwards, crushing their ribcages and skulls and turning their mass-produced blades to dust.

There was silence in the area around him as he looked up, his golden eyes glowing nearly white with powerful magic. He grinned, orc-blood staining his teeth and lips and making him appear ghastly in the torch- and moon-light.

"Who's next?" he snarled, going towards a group of Uruk. They screamed in rage and shot forward.

James shrieked in return and raised his blade.

* * *

"To the keep! Back to the Keep!"

Théoden looked over as the gate began to creak and groan beneath the onslaught breaking against it.

"Brace the gate! Hold them!" A soldier cried. Théoden turned again, raising his sword in the air.

"To the gate! Draw your swords!" he called loudly. Some of the Rohirrim and Rhûnic warriors that had still been picking off enemies with bows and other projectiles abandoned the other posts to draw their swords and come to help brace the gate. Gamling stood close to the King, helping to defend from those Uruks that had been able to get over the wall and through the breach of the Deeping wall. An Uruk suddenly grabbed Gamling by his throat, lifting him bodily. Théoden whirled and brought down his sword, cutting off the Uruk's hand as Gamling fell back, gasping.

"Make way! We cannot hold them much longer!" Gamling cried, his voice hoarse. Théoden caught sight of Aragorn and Gimli fighting nearby.

"Ho, Aragorn! Ho, Gimli!" he called. They finished off their opponents and turned to the king. "We need time to brace the gates!"

"How much?" Aragorn called. Théoden swept out a hand in a generic movement.

"As much as you can give me!" Théoden replied. Aragorn nodded and nudged Gimli off. The two disappeared.

"Timbers! Brace the gates!" They could hear Théoden call as they went. They climbed the wall above the gate, looking down at the Uruks from a parapet.

"Come on! We can take them!" Gimli said with Dwarvish enthusiasm. Aragorn had to contain a smirk. But he looked down again, grey eyes darting as he measured the distance with his eyes. They were up and off to the side of the Uruks trying to break the gate, unseen by them from the protection of the bulwark they were lodged behind. His long legs would be able to make the jump and bring death down on the heads of their enemies. But Gimli…

"It's a long way," Aragorn said quietly. Gimli looked over the edge and then back at Aragorn, his dark eyes glittering as he thought furiously. Then he took a breath.

"Toss me!" he said gruffly. Aragorn's eyebrows went up.

"What?"

"I cannot make the jump. You'll have to toss me!" Gimli blustered. Aragorn put his hand on Gimli's shoulder. The Dwarf sputtered a bit. "Promise the though…" he stuttered. "Don't tell the elf." Aragorn nodded gravely.

"Not a word."

A few moments later they were both on the causeway, axe and sword flashing dangerously as they brought down those who were trying to take down the gate. On either side of the causeway ladders and ropes were being thrown up, only to be cast down again by the men defending the keep. Aragorn and Gimli were losing ground quickly, and Aragorn was nearly knocked off balance by the muscular arms of an Uruk.

"Gimli! Aragorn! Get out of there!" Gimli cut the Uruk that grabbed Aragorn, and turned his head just to see Théoden's face disappear as they put up another plank of wood to try and hold the gate. Aragorn threw off the Uruk, knocking it completely off the causeway.

"Aragorn!"

They looked up to see Legolas throw down a rope from above the gate. It was slightly off of the causeway, and Aragorn grabbed Gimli bodily and reached out, grabbing the rope. Above them, Legolas pulled with all his might, muscles straining to pull his friends to safety. He had them up a good distance when his arms started to give. Even his Elven strength could not hold them both. The rope slipped a bit in his grasp, before stopping suddenly as another set of hands grabbed it. Legolas tightened his grip again, before looking up into the face of the blond wizard. Draca's grandfather. The man's hair was back, revealing the delicately pointed ears that marked him as a Peredhel.

"Thank you," Legolas said.

Lucius nodded firmly before they both heaved, pulling the other two up as quickly as possible. Gimli and Aragorn both fell heavily when they were pulled over the side. Legolas helped Aragorn to his feet and Lucius helped the Dwarf, righting him as they heard Théoden's voice again.

"Pull everyone back. Pull them back," he said, defeat in his eyes. Gamling hesitated only a moment before obeying.

"Fall back! Fall back!" he called. The men fell away from their attempts to brace the gate, and it splintered under the weight of the oncoming Uruks.

"They have broken through!" Gamling called out the obvious to the king. Théoden's face was worn as he sent out the final order.

"Retreat!"

Inside the keep, they braced the final gate. The only thing that separated the last of the allies of Rohan from the Uruk. Only that gate and the remainder of the army stood between the Uruks and the defenseless women and children in the caves. Goldhorn, king of the dragons, moved through the crowd with serpentine grace, his golden claws clicking against the floor as he stood in front of Théoden.

"What does the King of the grasslands wish of the Dragons? We will follow your people, defending as best we can," he said. The dragons had lost Flametooth, one of his finest red dragons, and with Snowpaw injured they were already down twenty percent of the royal guard.

Théoden looked into the crimson eyes of the dragon king, before shaking his head and turning away. He could not look into the faces of any of his people.

"The fortress is taken. It is over."

* * *

Damn it, Théoden. Put on your big boy panties, change your manpon and get the fuck over it!

*Looks around* Oh. Er….I think I'll just…go…over here. And stand in the corner…. 6_6

Anyway! There was much death, carnage, magic and destruction. So as always, if you haven't done it before, favorite or follow. And if you haven't reviewed yet, I would love to hear from you. And if you have reviewed before, I would love to hear if everything's still going well! I hope it's still a cohesive plot and enjoyable story!

Also, the song that Draca was singing as she helped patch people up is called 'When You Believe' from the movie "The Prince of Egypt." It's a great movie, and if you aren't familiar with it, there is a GREAT version of it on youtube, with a duet between Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. Beautiful song. Beautiful.


	29. Worth Fighting For

I find it hilarious that of all of the characters, be it wizard, Redling, Rohirrim, Man, Elf or Dwarf, one of my reviewers wanted to know what happened to Hathalmyrn. That's adorable. He is kind of cute….in a derelict…decaying…zombie kind of way. Hmm…

The dragons. Oh, the dragons. They're gonna be so much _fun._ The battle of the Hornburg wraps up here, which also takes us to the end of The Two Towers. I'll be starting with Return of the King with the next chapter, so there's that. :) I hope everything at this climax was what you wanted it to be, and I look forward to your responses and reactions.

I've reached over 10,000 hits on the story, so yay for that! I also (As of right now) have 125 reviews. I'm so excited!

* * *

Chapter 29 – Worth Fighting For

_"The fortress is taken. It is over."_

"Bullshit!" Cried James, stepping forward. He was covered in black ichor from his fight with the Uruks and his lips were stained with it from taking a few bites from his enemies. Théoden King looked at the specter of the half-dragon with wide eyes.

"So far as my memory stretches, which is a time beyond any of you, this fortress has never fallen whilst there art men to defend it," A voice melted out of the shadows, causing unmanly shrieks from several of the warriors as Hathalmyrn appeared as if from nowhere. "I see no shortage of men here to defend this place. Many have died defending it."

"So I should take council from a wraith of the Dark Lord? Is that what Rohan has come to?" Théoden asked sharply. Hathalmyrn's shrouded head tilted slightly as he looked down at the King. He was taller than any in this room, and looked rather impressive as he drew himself up, his robes lifting as shadowy, black magic made everyone's lips tingle.

"Thou shouldst hold thy tongue, young king. I have walked these lands far longer than thee, indeed thou art but a mewling infant to me. Do not mistake my tameness under my new Master's reign for weakness, for it would be a mistake most unfortunate," the wraith hissed.

"Hathalmyrn! Down!" Harry snapped, reaching up and grabbing the Nazgûl by its robe and dragging it into a corner.

"So you will let the enemy batter down your door? You will let them enter your fortress and slaughter you here? What do you think happens after that?" Goldhorn was speaking now. He was sitting out his haunches, looking every bit the elegant ruler, his horned head held upright as he tapped his tail against the ground. "Do you think they will turn loose your womenfolk and your hatchlings? Your mates will be divvied as spoils of war, your daughters used for sport. If we must die, this is an unspectacular way to do it."

"There has been much death already. What can men do against such reckless hate?" Théoden asked.

"I understand your burden, King of Rohan. You are faced with an impossible choice. To save your country you must condemn more men to death. But it has been my experience of men that you are a flexible sort. Tragedies seem only to make you stronger. Your nesters can survive without their mates and your hatchlings will grow. Unless they are dead. Dead children do not rebuild a country," The dragon said. "I came on the call of our friend, the dragon-not-dragon, but I feel a kinship with you, King. I will fight to my last breath to see your country survive."

Aragorn stepped forward, his grey eyes sparkling with a strange majesty.

"Let us ride on them!" he said. "Let us ride out and meet them. Though death be at our doorstep let us not flee from it! We will not let the makers of evil come to us. Let us go to them, and deliver what justice we may before Mandos welcomes us to his Hall!" Aragorn exclaimed. Gimli yelled out a war call in the Dwarf language, startling several people.

"I have a little death to deal to them before I go to my resting place!" Gimli growled.

"What say you, Théoden King? Will the horse-lords ride with the Redlings and the warriors of the East for one last, glorious time?" Phelan stepped forward, his long silver hair in a rebellious cloud around his head. Gismblog was standing nearby, his lightly built black sword held loosely in his hands. Prince Amir had a bloody gash across going from his forehead and down his brow, mercifully skipping his eye before going down his cheek. He stepped forward, raising the ceremonial snake-handled dagger.

"We have fought as brothers," the Prince said. "Will we die this way as well?"

"Let the Lords ride forth together! You have the sword of Boromir of Gondor on your side, and it is eager for justice!" The steward's heir called. There was a cheer from some of the men standing nearby, and resolve could be seen gathering in Théoden's eyes. Talun had sought out Boromir when they had retreated into the Keep, and she threaded her fingers through his. She held tightly to his arm and looked over to the King.

"For death and glory," he said, his voice soft. Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder.

"For _Rohan_. For your people!" he said, pumping a fist into the air.

"Yes. Yes! Let the horn of helm Hammerhand sound on the Deep one last time!" he said, signaling to one of the soldiers of Rohan. "Gather up your mounts and all that will ride with me. Let this be the hour that we draw swords together!"

There was a loud roar of approval as those with rideable animals retrieved them from their resting places. Horses and wolves stood together, feeling their master's deep agitation.

"The sun will be up soon," Gimli commented, twirling his axe. There was a large paw on his shoulder suddenly, and he looked up into the crimson eyes of the dragon King.

"Our people have been at odds, and I know the tongues of Dwarves have cursed our very names. But it would be an honor for me if you would allow me to carry you and your elven friend into battle. I can assure you I am a much smoother ride than any horse," he said genially. Gimli looked into the triangular face, his dark eyes glittering like beetles.

"We must talk, Master dragon, if we survive this night. Until that time, I have learned that allies come in most unexpected places. I cannot speak for my pointy-eared, prancing friend, but I will ride with you," Gimli replied. Legolas' eyes sparkled like starlight as he reached out and reverently touched one of the gilt-edged wings of the dragon king.

"Much more stylish than a horse, I'll admit," he said. The two sprang atop the dragon, who adjusted his wings accordingly. Stormsnout, one of his favored yellow dragons, pranced up beside them, ruffling his stiff yellow feathers.

"A dwarf, an elf and a dragon. I sense a fabulous joke in there somewhere," the dragon purred, his crackling voice full of nervous mirth. Legolas reached out and patted the bright head of the dragon, laughing lightly when static tickled his fingers and made his hair stand up on end.

Aragorn, Amir and Théoden stood at the head, their swords drawn as they sat astride their horses. Boromir was riding a Redling wolf beside of Talun, with Phelan and Gismblog just behind them. The wizards converged behind them in a line of magical might. Alatar and Pollando rode at each end of their force, with Lucius, Harry and a dragon-riding Hathalmyrn between them. The dragon that had volunteered for Hathalmyrn was one of the twinkling blue dragons, a frosty female by the name of Tundra. Frost formed on the ground where she stood, and Hathalmyrn reveled in the cold of her presence. His icy pale blade was drawn, and they looked a well match as he'd drawn on his blue cloak again.

"Not starting without me, eh?" Sirius rode forward on an intimidating black wolf he'd been given. Its rider had perished, yet it wanted to see battle. Its pale green eyes regarded them haughtily.

"How's Orion?" Harry asked.

"Out cold with several stitches. Draca said if he survives the next few hours he should be able to recover," Sirius said grimly. Harry nodded. "So I've come to wreak havoc on those ill-begotten gobs of ass-spackle," he growled. Lucius nudged his horse aside and Sirius took a place between Harry and Lucius.

James floated along languidly on his self-charmed broom, his sword held in his hand and magic arcing across his body.

"James, are you all right?" Harry asked. A few eyes turned in their direction as James' face twisted into a grin, showing his sharp teeth.

"I'm battle eager and rabid with pent-up magic," he replied lowly, his voice gravelly. Lucius sneered.

"I believe the rabid part," he muttered.

They could hear the Uruks trying to break down the gate. It had held very well so far, being the last and strongest of the defenses against outside influence. But now Théoden stood in front of it, looking back at the forces on hoof, paw and foot that were ready to defend Rohan to their last breath.

"Fell deeds have been awakened this night! We stand here at the edge of destruction and death, but we will not bow to it. Death will have to take us by forth! Raise the banners of Rohan! Raise the banners of the Redlings! Raise the banners of the Renegades of Rhûn! Now for wrath!" he called, and a roar met his ears. There was a slight hesitation outside at the sound, before a more desperate strike was laid to the gate. "Now for ruin!" he called again, and was once more greeted with a cheer. "Let the dawn rise red on this day!" he said, thrusting up his sword into the air. The horses were frothing with battle lust and so were the wolves, their snouts slavering at the fierce speech.

The gate broke open just as the horn of helm Hammerhand blew a deep resonating note, revealing several of the dark-faced Uruk-hai. They paused in surprise at the force waiting for them and the sound of the horn. The swords of the generals glittered in the last vestiges of torchlight, and the golden horns of the dragon king nearly glowed.

"Forth Eorlingas!"

"Forth Redlings!"

"Forth Renegades!"

"Forth, dragons!"

They charged.

* * *

"Théoden King has mounted a ride for death and glory," Gandalf said, standing at the top of the hill. Éomer rode up beside him, looking down as the wave of warriors rode from the keep, blades glittering and fire roaring.

"Death will not be dealt to the people of Rohan this night," Éomer said. A shorter figure on wolf-back came forward, a wicked-looking Orc blade in his hands.

"Well then what are we waiting for, boys? Do you need the king to send up an invitation?" he asked in his growling voice.

Gandalf raised his staff and Shadowfax reared, baying loudly and swinging his front legs. Eomer's horse, Firefoot, responded in turn as his master raised his sword high in the air. Several of the Rohirric riders put horns to their lips and blew loudly. Many of the Uruks turned, snarling at the newcomers and scrambling to get into a better defensive position before they could charge.

Stargush raised his own black blade as his mount threw back its head and howled. Several of the Redling riders with him put their own horns to their lips, letting loose eerie, spine-tingling sounds. Éomer turned sharply.

"Those are orc-horns!" he snarled. Stargush threw his hood back, revealing the uncommonly smooth face of a full orc.

"Many and varied are they that ride under the Redling banner!" he called with a sharp-toothed grin. "Come, horse-lord. Let us rally to your king!"

Éomer growled but raised his hand again. The horns sounded, the sounds mingling to be bright and dissonant at the same time. Gandalf marveled that it was probably the closest anyone could be to hearing the Music of Creation, with its rich clear opening chords and the dissonance of Melkor added in. The horns of the Rohirrim and the deep, melancholy, not-quite-orc-horns were uncommonly beautiful together. Éomer roared over the sound of the horns.

"To the king!"

* * *

Théoden looked up at the sound of the horn of the Rohirrim.

"Éomer!" he cried in disbelief. There was a cheer as they took advantage of the confusion of the Uruks who had turned. They did not know whether to keep facing the frenzied warriors pouring out of the keep or turn and fight the newcomers, and their hesitation was costing them.

The second horn had him considerably more confused. It sounded like an orc-horn, but not...quite. Gismblog shouted an explanation.

"That's Stargush and his company! And Visht with his! A great surprise and boon," the half-orc called cheerfully. There was a shout from Redling and Rohir as the group of twenty-one hundred descended the hill with Gandalf and Éomer at the lead.

* * *

"Is it just me or does that forest look an awful lot closer than it did last night?" Lucius asked, his wand blazing green with the killing curse to stop an Uruk in its tracks before it could land a blade on Sirius.

"I don't like forests. Too much crap happened to me inside of them. I happened to die in one," Harry said glibly, using a bludgeoning curse to break the wrist of the Uruk that tried to impale his horse. A neat Severing charm took off its head.

He looked up, wincing a bit as the rising sun dazzled him. But as much as it made his eyes blink, the Uruks were staring straight into it as the sun crested the hill. The charging reinforcements of Rohirrim and Redlings were lost in the dawn's rays, and came down on the Uruk army with a vengeance. Horses' hooves pounded many to the ground, and wolfs' paws slashed and gouged.

The giddiness of hope bolstered the defenders of the Hornburg, and the Uruk saw exactly what a little confidence boost could do. Those who were in a position to do so turned and ran for the inexplicably close forest.

"Don't go into the forest! Stay away from the trees! Let them go!" Éomer's voice called. The severely outmaneuvered remnant of the Uruk army disappeared into the forest, thinking that they had beaten a timely retreat. The Rohirric horses reared in horror as the trees suddenly began to move, creaking and groaning as the sound of agonized screams came from within. Even the wolves began to yip and prance nervously.

The battle of Helm's Deep was won, but as the riders and soldiers began to look around at the dead and dying, they realized that the price of their victory was steep indeed.

* * *

Gimli sat astride the corpse of an Uruk, puffing happily on his pipe. Ah, sometimes it was the simple things in life that made one content…

"Final count: fourty-two," came the voice of Legolas, holding his Galadrim bow loosely in his hand as he smiled down at his vertically challenged friend.

"That's not bad for a pretty, nancy Elvish princess," Gimli said, nodding along. Legolas' lips curved into an elegant smile. "I myself am sitting pretty on forty-three."

Legolas' bow came up with an arrow nocked before Gimli could blink. He nearly choked on a mouthful of smoke before the arrow was pointed down and released, landing in the body of the Uruk he was sitting on.

"Forty-three," he replied.

"What in bloody blue blazes was that for? He was already dead!" Gimli sputtered. Legolas tilted his head.

"He was twitching," he said reasonably.

"He was twitching because he's got my axe buried in his nervous system!" he cried. He jerked the axe a couple times, making the Uruk's body twitch.

"Impressively macabre," Legolas replied.

He turned at the shout of approval from the Redling founder.

"Stargush you ugly son-of-a-bitch!" Gismblog cried happily, clapping his hand to the shoulder of a shorter man.

"You are fully orc…" Legolas said, his grip tightening on his bow. Stargush turned his face to the elf.

"Bleeding balls! You're an elf!" he said sarcastically. He was swathed in a cloak of the Redlings, his bright red eyes twinkling madly.

"You rode with my nephew to our aid," came the voice of Théoden. Stargush laughed roughly.

"Someone grab this man's dick and give him a few consolation yanks! He must be the smartest one here!" he exclaimed. Théoden frowned.

"Your help was appreciated, but your attitude is not," he said warningly. Stargush reached up and wiped sweat from his face.

"Give me a break, _your majesty._ I don't get all those nice fuzzy feelings like the little half-bloods. I work my frustration out with sarcasm and wit. I find most opponents highly lacking in the wit department. Especially when I was in the Black Army. Those motherfuckers were dumb as bricks of shit!" he said, laughing uproariously.

Gismblog rolled his eyes. "Shut your foul mouth, Stargush, before you make them uncomfortable," he said amicably. Stargush waved a hand.

"Aw, I don't give four flying face fucks what they think! I've been around for four-thousand goddamn years and I'll be ass-fucked by a Nazgûl before I let any of these crusty little cum-stains tell me what I can or can't fucking say," Stargush said.

"Did someone say Nazgûl?" asked Hathalmyrn, coalescing into a solid shape after nearly melting from the shadows. Stargush looked at the phantom with wide eyes.

"Well fuck me with a fire poker and whack me in the todger with a battle-hammer," he growled. "That's a fucking Nazgûl if ever I've fucking seen one."

"Thou hast a foul tongue, slave," Hathalmyrn said, hissing like an offended cat.

"Slave? Oh you're one to talk you cum-guzzling shit rag! I'll use your robes to wipe my ass if you're not careful. At least I ain't got the Dark Lord's fiery cock wedged in my cornhole!" the orc barked.

"I feel we are digressing into intolerance and bigotry," Gismblog said, eyeing the Nazgûl warily. "Come, friend. I see a few of your company who were injured," he said, grasping Stargush by the elbow and leading him away.

"Dammit, Hathalmyrn! I turn my back for two seconds and you're already over here screwing around!" Harry snapped. He flicked his wand, sending a magical jolt through the wraith's body. The wretched creature whimpered and cringed away from Harry's wrath.

"Master! What a shameful creature am I! Not worth the magic you spend to keep me alive!" he wailed. Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed the Nazgûl's cloak.

"Get your bony arse out of the direct light. You're scaring everyone!" Harry growled.

"Yes, Master."

* * *

"Look! Osgiliath burns!"

What a fine pickle they'd found themselves in, Sam thought to himself. That wretched little tosser Gollum had led them right into the arms of the Ithilien Rangers, headed by Faramir, the brother of Boromir. Faramir was convinced that his brother was dead because he had not returned to Gondor once their Fellowship was broken, and the two hobbits did not know enough about what had happened after Amon Hen to comfort the man.

They were on their way to Minas Tirith to take the ring to the Steward. Sam would have fought and died to save Frodo, but there were far too many skilled Men here for him to even _consider_ it.

"Mordor has come," Faramir said mournfully, looking at the ruins that used to be the bright jewel of Gondor.

"The Ring will not save Gondor!" Frodo said, and Faramir turned to the Halfling. Frodo's blue eyes were intense as he glared at the second son of the steward. "It does nothing but destroy! It must be unmade!"

Faramir stared down the humble looking Halfling.

"With this ring I will save my people. With it the tide of this war will be turned," he said, before signaling for them to move onward.

"You must let me go, Faramir!" Frodo begged. But it was no avail. Frodo could almost see the influence of the ring taking Faramir as it had his brother. Isildur's Bane was working its foul magic again.

They found themselves in the middle of the siege as Faramir and his men entered the ruins of Osgiliath. Projectiles fell just short of them, and arrows were being hailed upon each side. Frodo and Sam were separated, each being held in a firm grip by the Rangers. Gollum was being led by sword-point. Faramir led them through the city, meeting up with some of the men already stationed there.

"Faramir! Orcs have taken the eastern shore. Their numbers are too great. By nightfall we will be overrun," the man said, his face marred with a frown.

Frodo inhaled sharply, feeling an icy stab of pain in his shoulder. Sam looked over, his face full of concern.

"Mr. Frodo?" he asked softly.

"It's calling to Him, Sam. His eye is almost on me," Frodo said, his voice going deep and guttural. Faramir stepped towards them, signaling to the man that had spoken to them.

"Madril, send them to my father," he said, looking mighty pleased with himself. The man motioned to the ones holding them, and they were pushed forward. "Tell him Faramir sends a mighty gift. A weapon that will change our fortunes in this war," he added, his face taking on a shadow of something unidentifiable but altogether bad.

"Do you want to know what happened to Boromir? Do you want to know why your brother hasn't come back?" Sam said, trying to twist out of his captor's grasp. He was held firm as Faramir's grey eyes locked with his. "Your brother was driven to near madness by the ring! He, too, was convinced that it could be a boon to Gondor, but he didn't know what he was getting into. He cornered Frodo! It is most likely his shame that prevents him from coming home! Shame, not that he could not retrieve such a foolish item, but shame that he let it manipulate him so!" Sam snapped.

Faramir looked at them both intensely, noticing a strange blankness coming to Frodo's face.

"Watch out!"

There was a crack of stone on stone, and their attention was drawn upwards as a boulder crashed into the remnants of a tall tower. Faramir's eyes, however, did not leave Frodo's. For a moment it was as if his entire iris disappeared, leaving only a deep, inky blackness in his eyes, before he blinked and the blue was restored.

"They're here. They've come." Frodo said to Faramir. Then, a hair-raising shriek sounded.

"Nazgûl!" Faramir cried. He grabbed Sam and Frodo by the arm, leading them further into the ruined city to hide them. Gollem was dragged along by another. He found the ruins of an alleyway to stash them in, and gave them both a fierce glare.

"Stay here. Keep out of sight," he said sharply. Then he turned to his men. "Take cover!"

Then they were alone. Gollum was cowering in the corner, curled up and whimpering. Frodo looked rather dazed, Sam was pacing back and forth in their alley. Frodo suddenly started walking, and Sam's head shot up.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Frodo walked out of the old alleyway they were in, walking calmly into the midst of the battling Men of Gondor. Sam ran towards him. "Where are you going?"

Frodo walked up the old stairs of the crumbling building, standing on what was the second floor. As he stood, the Nazgûl hovered there, sitting astride its fell beast. Frodo reached into his vest and retrieved the Ring, holding it up for a moment.

* * *

Adunaphel could not believe his luck. Here he was, just trying to piss off the Men of Gondor, and he finds the ultimate prize! His Master's ring was in the grasp of this tiny creature, and the little one seemed so keen on giving it up. He tightened his grip on the reins of his flying beast, and it inched forward, claws extended to grasp the little creature. Hmm…it was cute enough. Perhaps his master would let him keep the little thing as a pet after the ring was returned? It had such precious curly hair!

He gave a surprised shriek when another of the little creatures grabbed the first, and both took a tumble down the stairs. He started to come forward with his mount, when one of those insufferable Mortals fired on him with his bow. The arrow struck his beast, and it reared in pain, flying up and away. Damn it! Stupid creature!

He was going to be hated worse than Hathalmyrn when story of this got out!

* * *

Frodo landed hard at the bottom of the stairs, before flipping their position and drawing his sword. He grasped his assailant by the throat and held the blade close.

Sam struggled in his Master's grasp. Frodo's eyes were glazed with a black look, the iris gone and giving him the appearance of some kind of demon. He was even bearing his teeth at Sam.

"Frodo… It's me. It's your Sam. Don't you know your Sam?" he asked. Frodo blinked, and his eyes were blue again. He fell back, tears coming to his eyes as sobs shook his shoulders. He dropped Sting from his hand, putting his face into his other palm as he cried.

"I can't do this anymore, Sam," he cried brokenly.

"I know. It's all wrong. By rights, we shouldn't even be here," he said softly. He moved to his master and sat next to him, gingerly taking the hand that had held Sting to his throat and threading their fingers together. "But we are." He stroked the trembling hand gently. "It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo...The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?" Sam spoke softly. He reached over and pressed a kiss to Frodo's head.

"But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Every darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out all the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you…that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something," Sam said, wrapping his arm around Frodo and giving him a one-armed hug.

"And what are we holding on to, Sam?" Frodo asked weakly, reveling in the gentle attention of his best friend. Sam withdrew his arm and stood, before reaching down with a lopsided smile and pulling Frodo to his feet.

"There's still some good left in this world, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. Then he bent down and retrieved Sting, before placing the hilt of the faithful old blade into Frodo's hand. Sam curled his hand over Frodo's, and for a moment they both held on to the Elvish blade.

"And it's worth fighting for!"

* * *

Well, guys. I know I haven't been keeping up with Frodo and Sam. It's really simple why: nothing really that they are going through is any different than it would have been before. They don't have James with them, or a group of Redlings helping them out. It's the same as from the book and movie, save for a few details. I did, once again, try to emphasize exactly how the Ring is affecting Frodo, and give Sam a little screen time. I loved his little speech. :3 I just wanted to do a little blurb of update with the other Hobbits. We're pretty much at the end of The Two Towers and are running in for the home stretch beginning with Return of the King. Blargle.

BTW, I haven't forgotten my other cameo. It's only a matter of time. }:]

So Helm's Deep has been won, and Stargush is a filthy-mouthed orc. *Shrug.* I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. Lolz. Not gonna lie, it was refreshingly fun to write Stargush and use all sorts of offensive/shocking names that I'd never use in public!

You've read, now favorite or follow! or barring that, leave me a review to let me know what you thought!


	30. The Folly of a Wizard

Well, my only excuse is that this chapter kicked my ass. :( But it is one of the longer ones, so take some comfort in that. I got great responses from last chapter. :D Stargush was a love him or hate him kind of guy. And yes, it was totally horrible, but still kind of fun to write. Lolz.

No excuses guys, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. I did end up getting a tentative chapter for the Girl falls into ME and gets turned into an Orc story. Would you guys like a preview? Perhaps if its well received, I may post a few previews before posting the story. Anyway, enjoy the new chapter and be sure to let me know if you liked it!

* * *

Chapter 30 – The Folly of a Wizard

James was feeling rather miserable. He was coming down off of battle lust, and some of his deeds were making him feel ill. And not only was that, but the quantity of bitter orc-blood he'd consumed making his stomach cramp now. Said organ gave a particularly nasty grumble and he belched loudly, before a bit of acidic bile rose in his throat and he spat upon the ground. The acid sizzled against the loose stone.

"That is the _last time_ I drink Orc blood!" James growled. A few of the Rohirrim men around him affected horrified faces.

"You're a dirty bastard, do you know that?" Phelan asked, untying his hair to redo his braid. James merely grinned at his old friend.

"You knew what this was. You've had your chances to escape," he laughed. Phelan looked over and watched as Stargush began flirting with some of the female Rhûn warriors. They were a bit horrified at first, until they discovered his foul mouth could easily give way to a smooth-talking gentleman. What a conundrum, that orc.

"I'm going to find out what we're doing," James said, approaching where Gandalf was speaking with Théoden. Aragorn and Legolas stood nearby. Boromir was not too far away, having found Talun and begun patching up a few of her hurts. She was both annoyed and touched by his attention, as belied by the expression on her face that made it clear she both wanted to toss him down upon the ground and ride him like a Maera, and gnaw his hand off if he touched her again. James laughed aloud. Women were funny.

He came up to the group as they conversed. He could not resist the insurmountable urge to slap Legolas' behind as he passed. The elf yelped spectacularly and whirled, glaring at James. James merely stared at him with a grin. Gandalf stopped speaking and turned to them.

"Are you quite done being immature?" he asked gruffly to James. James scoffed.

"Screw _that._ I never quite grew up. Besides…have you _seen_ Legolas' arse? It's fabulous! And not in a sexual way, either. It's like…a beautiful painting, admirable in a purely aesthetic sort of way," James said calmly, gesturing at the elf's rump. Legolas looked quite uncomfortable with this description.

"I will ride to Isengard. You may, of course, accompany me," Gandalf said to Théoden. "We go to a parley, not a fight."

"You mean we're not going to bend that shit-hole over and stuff a boot in his arse?" James asked, prickling with anger. Gandalf looked at James fiercely.

"His punishment is not yours to give. He will answer for his crimes when he stands before the Valar," he replied, his eyes flashing. James shivered as Gandalf gave off his own wave of power. He was reminded that this was not a feeble old man but a powerful Istar.

"Just because his eternal punishment lies with them doesn't mean I can't hex him in the arse," James grumbled.

The King then chose men that were unhurt and had swift horses, and he sent them forth with tidings of the victory into every vale of the Mark; and they bore his summons also, bidding all men, young and old, to come in haste to Edoras. There the Lord of the Mark would hold an assembly of all that could bear arms, on the third day after the full moon. To ride with him to Isengard the King chose Éomer and ten men of his household. With Gandalf would go Aragorn, Legolas, James, Gimli and Boromir. Prince Amir chose to stay behind, having no direct fight with the fallen White Wizard.

Phelan and Stargush were chosen amongst the Redlings to go, leaving Visht and Gismblog to help and tend the wounded and gather up the women and children to send back to the Village. Goldhorn left the remainder of his company with the Rohirrim and would walk with them, in case a dragon's perspective was needed. Harry of his group chose to ride with them as well as Lucius, since Sirius wanted to go be with Orion and Draca refused to be left behind as they met with Saruman. Celebrían stayed at the Hornburg to keep tending to the wounded.

Alatar and Pollando both came as well, since Saruman was of their order. Hathalmyrn would accompany them if for only the reason that nobody wanted him around if Harry wasn't there. Hathalmyrn was a bit put out by the whole thing.

The company of Kings and creatures left in the afternoon. The work of burial was then but beginning, and many Redlings and men of Rhûn worked alongside the Rohirrim to bury their soldiers with honor.

* * *

The king and all his company sat silent on their horses, marveling, perceiving that the power of Saruman was overthrown; but how they could not guess. And now they turned their eyes towards the archway and the ruined gates. Suddenly they were aware of many figures sitting around it. With gasps of wonder the Rohirrim realized that there were many Uruks sitting amongst humans, with many of the Uruks and Humans alike looking pale and emaciated. There were bottles and bowls and platters spread amongst the group, as if they had all eaten a great picnic.

There were the shapes of children, running about and laughing. Just beyond the children they saw a great rubble-heap and two small figures lying on it at their ease, grey-clad, hardly to be seen among the stones. Two Uruk children were curled into the sides of one of them, who appeared to be resting. The other, with crossed legs and arms behind his head, leaned back against a broken rock and sent from his mouth long wisps and little rings of thin blue smoke. A single Uruk girl was draped across his whole body, firmly asleep with her thumb tucked into her mouth.

The heads of the Uruks and Humans perked up as the group approached, many of them looking like skittish colts ready to run. A couple rose to their haunches, crooking their dark claws in preparation of a defense of their group. But the smoke-breathing figure rose ere any could speak, carefully disengaging the girl from him and allowing her to rest more naturally against the rubble heap. He stood to his feet and pulled his pipe from his mouth before bowing low.

"Welcome, my Lords, to Isengard!" he greeted. "We are the door wardens. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc is my name; and my companion, who, alas! is overcome with weariness is Peregrin, son of Paladin, of the House of Took. Far in the North is our home. The Lord Saruman is within; but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honorable guests."

"You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling – and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy, that if I do not burst, it will be a marvel!" Gimli said, looking fit to explode.

"You know what? I'm not even mad," James said, dismounting his floating broom. He went to where Merry was standing and wrapped the hobbit into a bone-crushing hug. Merry, laughing brightly, kicked his bare feet a bit. Then James pressed a kiss to the top of Merry's curly head and put him back on the ground.

"One thing you have not found in your hunting, and that's brighter wits," said Pippin, opening an eye. "Here you find us sitting on a field of victory, amid the plunder of armies, and you wonder how we came by a few well-earned comforts! And we even managed to share amongst our rescued friends from Isengard!" he said, gesturing to the sitting group around them. Théoden stepped forward.

"There is no doubt we are witnessing the reunion of friends. And here, do I spy the golden hair of Rohirrim amongst these who were freed from the Wizard's tower?" he called, looking among the scruffy group. A few of them looked at the King in wonder, their characteristic hair dirty and greasy from being unwashed.

"Many are they that were wronged by the White Wizard!" Merry said fiercely. Two Uruks stepped forward, one male and one female.

"Master Merry, is it these that are to show us kindness?" Nalt asked. Merry amazed the riders of Rohan and wizard alike by taking her hand and drawing her closer to the group.

"This is Nalt, a very brave Lady Uruk who risked her life to help us escape the clutches of those who would have done us harm!" he said. "I should hope that she and her people will find welcome when peace comes to Middle Earth?" Merry asked, looking up at the King of Rohan, and then at Aragorn and Boromir, who sat atop their horses. The heir to the throne of Gondor smiled broadly, and Boromir answered the hobbit.

"There will always be welcome for those who wish for peace! Many homes are there that have been burned to the ground. Many families are without help for their harvest because their husbands and fathers are gone. Should any wish to live in Gondor, we welcome you with open arms," he said.

"So you would make a different slave out of us?" a gruff Uruk asked. His head was shaved bald and there were many scars across his chest and broad arms. "We shed the chains from the wizard's yolk only to break our backs in the fields of Gondor?" he growled.

"That's not what he said and you know it!" Stargush said suddenly, nudging his wolf forward. There were many that cringed and whimpered at the sight of a full orc on his mount, remembering the sharp whips of the orc riders that had tormented them in their prison. "All he's saying is that if you want to live in their land, you can damn well earn it! Nobody's going to pay your way and let you wallow in their spoils, be you Orc, Elf, Man, Dwarf or an unholy mix of all four!" he snarled. The Uruk looked up at Stargush, trying to dominate him with a yellow glare. But Stargush was not intimidated by a mewling Uruk babe, and stared him down until the Uruk knelt back down on the ground, grimacing and turning his neck to the side to reveal his throat in a sign of submission.

"Come now, enough of that! We didn't patch them up and keep them from drowning as the Isen was undammed to have you swoop in like a fell raptor and strike them down!" Merry said, stepping in front of the Uruk and glaring down Stargush. Even Pippin had made it to his feet, his young sleeping companions rubbing their eyes as they observed the group. Stargush's thick eyebrows shot up, and he yelped out a laugh.

"By the Dark Fucker's scorched nipples! The little Halfling has more guts than half the orcs I've lead over the years. It's a wonder he can walk straight with such massive balls," he said frankly, giving the hobbit an appraising look.

"Are we quite done?" Goldhorn asked suddenly, moving forward. The poor slaves and rescued Uruks shrieked in fright of the suddenly obvious dragon. Merry merely regarded the purple dragon, noting that Gimli and Legolas were sitting astride it quite elegantly, before turning to James.

"Your doing, I suppose?" he asked. James grinned and shrugged.

"I do what I can."

"Where is Treebeard, Merry?" Gandalf asked suddenly, breaking the moment.

"Away on the north side, I believe. He went to get a drink – of clean water. Most of the other Ents are with him, still busy at their work – over there," Merry waved his hand towards the steaming lake; and as they looked, they heard a distant rumbling and rattling, as if an avalanche was falling from the mountain-side.

"And is Orthanc then left unguarded?" asked Gandalf.

"Well unless the wizard can fly or turn himself invisible as to sneak past all those Ents guarding him, it is safe to assume that he is securely contained therein and we are to meet with him," Lucius spoke sharply. Pippin looked over at the imposing wizard, glancing between him and Legolas.

"Legolas, did you know that you have a veritable twin?" he asked. Legolas and Lucius looked at each other, fair brows shooting up at the very thought.

"No-,"

"No-,"

And they both stopped, narrowing their eyes at each other when they spoke at the same time. Gimli snickered from behind Legolas.

It was Harry who nudged his wolf forward, his brilliant green eyes searching the surroundings with the ease of many years of practice, and spoke them into action.

"I believe there is a fallen Sorcerer that we must deal with, lads. Our own comforts and stories will have to wait," he said. Gandalf nodded.

"Aye. Alatar and Pollando, to me. We will face him as Three of the Five," he said. Then he turned, searching out the starry eyes of the young Green Wizard. "My apologies, young one. Come to the front, Ithilrhas the Green. We will face him as Four of the Six," he said, holding out his hand. Draca looked at her grandfather, who gave her a smile and an encouraging nod. She swallowed hard and moved her borrowed horse forward. The four Istari walked abreast of each other, and the others followed behind them. As they passed, Legolas reached down and swept Merry up onto the back of the dragon. Goldhorn only shifted his wings a bit to acknowledge the extra presence on his back. Merry reached out and rubbed the back of the triangular head, just below a large ear, and was rewarded with a deep rumbling purr beneath him.

Aragorn swept Pippin up onto his horse, giving the Hobbit a squeeze about the middle. As they passed through the sordid group, Merry winked at the Uruks and slaves.

"We shall return in time to tell a great evening story!"

* * *

Treebeard greeted them at the door of Isengard, throwing up a wooden hand as salute.

"Young Master Gandalf! Young Master Alatar! Young Master Pollando! And a new little Wizardling, too. Barely a stripling are you!" the Ent said in its slow way. Treebeard's fibrous fingers lowered with the sound of rustling leaves, brushing leafy fingers over Draca's face, making her laugh ticklishly. "And with a laugh like the elves," he murmured. "I'm glad you've all come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master. But there is a Wizard to manage here, locked in his tower."

Many eyes watched the tower, seeking the elusive White Wizard.

"Show yourself," Aragorn murmured, his sharp grey eyes glinting like steel. Gandalf turned to him.

"Be careful. Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous," Gandalf replied sharply.

"Well then let's have his head and be done with it!" Gimli retorted.

"I agree with the Dwarf," Stargush growled.

"I agree with both of them. I would like nothing more than to gnaw on his skull," James added.

"Hush. We need him alive. We need him to talk," Gandalf explained.

"I'll make him talk. And there'll be fire. Sweet, glorious fire," James grumbled.

"You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterwards." Came a deep and soothing voice from the top of the tower. They looked up, astonished, for they had heard no sound of his coming; and they saw a figure standing at the rail, looking down upon them: an old man, swathed in a great cloak, the color of which was not easy to tell for it changed if they moved their eyes or if he stirred. His face was lined with age and dominated by a long white beard. The beard was bound with fine cording to keep it from flying up in the wind, and his long, sleek hair was also bound back from his face, and also of a bright white color. His eyebrows were dark and arched finely, giving him an air of aristocracy and power. He had a thin nose and high cheekbones, his face thin but strong. But his most piercing feature was his eyes. His eyes were the color of sable, deep and fathomless. It was hard to read any emotion in those dark depths. "Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?"

"You are not a maker of peace!" Draca cried. Pollando reached over and took her slender hand in his. Saruman's dark eyes were drawn to her.

"I see they released you from your silence. Do not seek to rebuke me, whore," Saruman said to her. James snarled angrily. "What a pathetic group of foul creatures you need to parley!"

But now Théoden moved forward. "We shall have peace, Saruman," the King spoke. Draca looked at him in surprise, but said nothing when Pollando squeezed her hand. "We shall have peace when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows, we shall have peace!" Théoden said grimly.

"Gibbets and crows? Dotard!" Saruman snarled. But then he seemed to deem the Rohirric King unworthy of his attention. He turned to Gandalf. "What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame?" he asked snottily. Then he feigned surprise. "Let me guess…The key of Orthanc? Or perhaps the Keys of Barad-Dûr itself along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the Five Wizards!" he snapped. Draca drew herself up.

"Six! There are six wizards put in Arda!" she said strongly.

"Hold your tongue, you wretched girl! I had assumed you had been taught your place, but apparently you did not spend enough time on your back!" Saruman admonished her. There were a few murmurings, and her face flushed with mortification.

"Your foulness is deep, Saruman. You were once called wise, and held in high esteem among the people of Middle Earth. What happened to you? Your treachery has already cost many lives. Thousands more are at risk. But you can save them, Saruman. You were deep in the enemy's counsel," Gandalf said. Saruman leaned languidly on his staff, staring down at them with dark eyes.

"You come for information? I have some for you," he said. His hand was lifted suddenly, and a globe of some size and heftiness was held aloft in his hand. It was dark, its surface swirling with orange and opalescent rings. "Something festers in the heart of Middle-Earth, something that you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it."

Hathalmyrn, making his presence known for the first time, hissed at the sight of the Palantír. "A seeing stone is no toy for a wizard!" he cried. Saruman stared at the cloaked figure, before his dark eyes sparkled with barely contained dark mirth.

"Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon. You're all going to die. But you know this, don't you, Gandalf? You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king. Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him, those he professes to love. Tell me, what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have set him on can only lead to death," Saruman said, his dark eyes sparkling with malice.

"I've heard enough of this wizard!" Gimli said. He put his hand on Legolas' arm. "Stick him with an arrow. Maybe that giant ego he has will deflate a bit." But Gandalf held out his hand. They all watched with baited breath. All except James. He was trembling with barely restrained fury, his whole body taut like a spring and ready to fly.

"Come down, Saruman. There need not be more killing. Come to us willingly and your life will be spared," Gandalf said.

"You would offer him mercy after what he's done?" Lucius asked. His wand was in his sleeve, the tip sparkling with the green of the Killing Curse. He would only cast it if necessary. And it was looking more and more necessary.

"Save your pity and your mercy. I have no use for it!" Saruman snarled. He lifted his staff, whirling it about his head and jerking the tip downward. A flare of fire exploded outward, falling like a comet towards Gandalf. James jumped into action, leaping nearly over the reborn Wizard's head and slapping the fireball out of the air as if it were a rubber ball.

"Saruman, you have acted in anger and hate against one of the order for the last time. For your crimes against the Green Wizard and your crimes against me, and your crimes against Arda, I cast you out of the order of wizards and declare that your staff is broken!" he said. The staff in Saruman's hand exploded in many pieces. They saw a small flash of black, and Gríma appeared behind Saruman. Théoden then nudged his horse forward, trying to appeal to the man who had once been his advisor.

"Gríma! You need not follow him. You were not always as you are now. You were once a Man of Rohan. Come down," Théoden said. Gríma needed to be tried for his crimes against the crown, and would likely hang for his treatment of the green wizard.

"A Man of Rohan? What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs? The victory at Helm's Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horse-master. You are a lesser son of greater sires," Saruman growled. He stood in front of Gríma, not content with how this was turning out. He was powerless without his staff, and he would not go down alone.

"Gríma, come down. Be free of him," Théoden tried again.

"He may free himself of my presence, but he can never be free of the deeds he has committed against your house, Théoden. Do you not remember how he stalked your niece's footsteps? He shadowed her wherever she went. He watched her eat, he watched her sleep. He watched her dress and bathe, seeking to pleasure himself afterwards," Saruman said. Éomer growled angrily at this. Gríma was shaking his head. "Oh yes, Gríma. And how many times did you punish the Green Wizard for your own pleasure? How many times did you force her to wear nothing underneath her robes so that you could flip them and have your pleasure behind the king's throne!"

Draca buried her face in her hands, her shoulders hitched up. James' wings stretched out suddenly, flapping downward as he took flight. His powerful black wings beat at the air loudly as he gained height. Legolas nocked an arrow to incapacitate James but was jostled as Goldhorn shifted angrily, having figured out what the elf was doing. The arrow flew wide from the Galadrim bow and missed as James went behind the tower. They could still see his wings pumping behind the broad pillar of the tower.

"Tell them no more!" Gríma had looked away from the group, and did not see the danger climbing ever higher.

"Shut your mouth, cur!" Saruman snapped, shoving Gríma away.

"Saruman! You were deep in the enemy's counsel. Tell us what you know!" Came Gandalf's voice, desperately. The tower was tall, but James' wings were broad and strong. He was almost at the top of the tower.

"You withdraw your guard, and I will tell you where your doom will be decided. I will not be held prisoner here!" Saruman said. James burst up just as Gríma charged at Saruman with a dagger. The knife was plunged into the wizard's side and Gríma was yanked back by James' clawed fingers. James grabbed Gríma's head between his hands, and the feel of magic was in Gríma's body, putting unbearable pressure on the inside of his head.

Saruman stood surprised at the edge of the tower's top, before his body turned slightly and he fell, plummeting off of the top of the tower. There was a cry from those below. Draca lifted her staff suddenly, and the body of Saruman was stilled in mid-air, his momentum arrested moments before he would have landed on the sharply broken piece of one of his own devices.

Blood was dripping out of his mouth and staining his beard. His dark, baleful eyes landed on Draca, and she stared back at him, levelly.

"You go to face your judgment in front of Mandos. I hope Aulë is there to greet you," she said. His dark eyes widened, before the light went out suddenly. There was a shriek of agony, and Draca lost her concentration. Saruman's body dropped, bouncing off of the sharp device and splashing into the deep water.

"James, let him go!" Harry said. "He needs to face judgment for his actions!"

"I will be his judge!" James said, pouring tiny amounts of magic into his fingers. Pressure was building in Gríma's skull, like filling a bladder with air. He screamed again. "I will be his jury!" James added, his pupils dilated in fury as he stepped forward, dangling Gríma's body over the edge of the tower. The man kicked desperately, screaming. "And I will be his executioner!"

There was a sound like a ripe fruit being ruptured, and Gríma's head burst in James' hand. The decapitated body fell downward, landing with a bloody splash below. James then threw his head back, shrieking like a banshee as magic crackled around him like lightning.

"We must send word to all our allies, and to every corner of Middle-Earth that still stands free. The enemy moves against us. We need to know where he will strike," Gandalf said, desperately trying to break the moment.

Pippin suddenly slid down from Aragorn's horse, approaching an orange glow in the water. He bent down and picked up the large, spherical object.

"Pippin!" Aragorn said sharply.

"Bless my bark," Treebeard said in surprise. Gandalf moved quickly to where Pippin was standing, Shadowfax nickering in the presence of the Palantír.

"Peregrin Took! I'll take that, my lad. Quickly now," he said. Pippin seemed reluctant, but he handed it over to Gandalf, who covered it with his white robe. James swooped into their presence again, not minding his clothing that was splashed with fresh gore, nor his hands that were bathed in fresh red blood.

"James," Harry said sharply. James ignored him. He mounted his broom and moved ahead of them, floating languidly at the outer gate.

Gandalf looked where the body of Saruman could be seen floating in the water, and then to where Gríma's corpse had landed.

"Have heart, wizards and men," Treebeard said, reaching out with a leafy finger and pushing a strand of hair back from Gandalf's face. "The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here. Young trees. Wild trees."

"Let us depart from this place, friends. There are many waiting for us, and there is a victory that we have not celebrated yet," Gandalf said gravely.

They walked with heavy shoulders away from the tower of Orthanc.

* * *

Oh man. Some serious stuff. I had mixed feelings about Saruman's death. Of course this means that the book-verse ending of RotK is untouchable now. You know, the stuff that happened in the Shire. Ah well, I believe by the time we get to that part we will have changed so much stuff anyway that it won't matter.

Anywhoo, I hope you enjoyed the chap and let me know how you liked it. So much stuff is floating around in my head, and I can't wait to get to Gondor! Lololol! Denethor you slut! }:]

So favorite or follow if you haven't already, and if you have be sure to leave me a review. Also, if you haven't read/followed/favorite/or reviewed the prequel to this story, It's a relatively short but enjoyable read about how James met Aragorn at first, how they got into ME, and how James separated the three elven rings from Sauron's taint. It's completed, but it shows up near the bottom of the sorting of the crossover stories because it's got so few reviews. I would appreciate it if you guys bolstered the reviews on that one a little! :D


	31. Through the Fire

Well. That was fun. I do not regret Gríma's death. Once I figured out that I was going with the movie-verse for that particular storyline, then it was just a matter of who got to kill Gríma. It was either do it exactly like the movie, or let him be taken to Edoras and hanged. So then I said to myself, I said 'Self! Why doesn't James do it? He's a pissed off dragon wizard with a reason to hate Gríma.' And then I agreed and wrote the scene. The whole head-explodey-thing was just a quick, if messy, way to do it.

avalonchick5 – ooh la la! I blushed when I read your review! I was quite keen on making something different, and I'm glad you agree that I've succeeded. I hope I keep doing so.

And thanks to everyone who reviewed. If you ever have questions, don't hesitate to PM me. I do try and respond to those. :D

**(!)** At the end of the chapter, I have included a preview of my newest project, the story of Girl falls into ME and gets turned into an orc! **(!)**

* * *

Chapter 31 – Through the Fire

There were many wounded that were brought back to Edoras. The Uruk and Human refugees from Isengard were on that list. Merry and Pippin rode with the children on a wagon that had been procured, while the others were split up amongst mounts of the Rohirrim and Redlings. The Renegades of Rhûn were invited to travel back to the capitol city as well, having earned their place in the favor of Rohan's King. They were met at the gate by the few who had stayed behind.

"Hail, Théoden King!" cried the guard, opening the gate for the King, who rode ahead of the group.

"We come back bearing victory and allies for Rohan!" Théoden called, and the small group of guards cheered. "We have many injured. Lead these Healers up to the Halls of Healing so that they may make them ready to receive those that were injured defending this country."

The Healers of Rhûn were dispatched with a couple of the Rohirrim guard, and a few of the Redling Healers went, too. Most of the Rohirrim healers had been left behind to deal with the injured that were too badly hurt to travel.

"Come, we will make ready the Meduseld for a celebration that will not soon be forgotten. We will celebrate the living and the dead, and toast to a day when there is peace in all the countries of Men!" Théoden called. A great cheer rose up in the multitude. He looked out over the sea of faces. Men of Rohan, Men of Rhûn. Wizards, Redlings. Horses and Wolves.

Prince Amir cantered his horse forward.

"We will be most happy to assist in any way possible. Let us use some of the gifts we brought to bolster the food for this celebration. Let it not be said that the people of Rhûn do not know how to party!"

* * *

"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country! Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!"

Many mugs were tipped at that. The Great Hall was full of tables of food and drink. The great celebration stretched well out onto the porch and into the streets, where more tables laden with goods were there for the taking. Musicians were scattered through the Hall and street, piping with flutes and sawing on fiddles. Phelan himself had a leg up on a bench and was fiddling a jaunty tune while a few brave Rohirric men were dancing with some of the Rhûnic women.

Even the children were in on the celebration. Théoden stood on the porch and watched as children of the Horse-land and the brown-skinned children of Isengard and Rhûn made merry together in the grass. They played as only children can do, not caring whose skin was what color. The Halflings had been content to leave the little ones to their own devices and were inside, putting some of the big Rohirric soldiers to shame with their drinking prowess.

There were many who had already retired for the evening with pleasurable company. He was aware that Boromir of Gondor had taken one of the brown-skinned Redling ladies, he believed Aragorn had called her Talun, towards the camp that the Redlings were making. He had seen the love and passion in their eyes, and did not begrudge them a night of unbridled love, even if they were an odd sort of couple.

The dragons had even joined the celebration. They had indeed nearly scared the skin off of his people, but when he had told them of the valiant scaled warriors, they had been accepted with as much welcome as any of the two-legged allies. The dragons were using their unique breaths to light up the sky similarly to Gandalf's fireworks. The ones who breathed fire could concentrate the flame, sending up fireballs that dissipated high in the air and left no ember to catch alight a thatched roof. There were a few whose icy breath was sent into the air, exploding in snowflakes that fell to the ground as cool mist. Every so often a streak of lightning would be sent up by the yellow dragon, lighting up the streets.

He saw the half-dragon sitting off by himself. The lad had not spoken since Isengard. His father had tried to engage him in conversation several times, but each time was rebuffed by the sharp-tongued fighter. Théoden took a sip of ale and walked down the steps of the Golden Hall, towards where James was sitting against a wall, nursing a still-full mug.

"Tonight is supposed to be a celebration. Why do you not make merry with your people?" Théoden asked. James looked up, his golden eyes catching torchlight and gleaming eerily.

"I do not much feel like celebrating," he said simply, putting his mug aside. "I lost control of myself at Isengard. And yet I am not sorry."

"Gríma was lost to us, a victim of his own malice. For only what he committed against me he would have been hanged. For his unnatural obsession with Éowyn he would have been publically lashed. And for his treatment of the Lady Wizard he would have been beheaded on the butcher's block. While I do not appreciate you taking the justice of my people into your clawed hands…I do not regret the outcome," Théoden said.

"I feel nothing. I feel less than human," James said deeply, drawing up his knees and resting his arms against them. "I cannot feel my soul."

"Perhaps you just need to seek her out?" Théoden hinted. James' dark brows furrowed. "I am not so old that I do not know what love looks like. I have seen the way you guard her, like a precious treasure. And I have seen the way she preens under your attention. I regret that I did nothing while Gríma harmed her so. I do remember that she always seemed so sad, and yet she has smiled more since your appearance than ever I have seen."

"Her grandfather would cut off my tail," James commented, resting his chin against his arms.

"I seem to recall Elfhild's father said that if I put one toe too close to his daughter he would personally impale me with my own….spear," Théoden said, waggling his eyebrows. James looked up, his head tilting curiously.

"Who is Elfhild?" he asked. Théoden grinned broadly.

"She was the mother of my son," he commented lightly. James smiled. "Go find the Green Lady, sir!"

James scrambled to his feet, a new emotion in his eyes. He clapped the King's shoulder with a grin. "You sir, are a very good king. I will do everything in my power to make sure you don't die before you're really, really old!" he said, before scampering off. Théoden watched him go. James sprang lightly to where the Green Wizard was standing with her grandfather, and took her arm, speaking with her. The grandfather made a face at both of them, but the girl seemed to hold her ground, reaching out and taking the other man's hand. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, before taking James' hand and letting him lead her away to dance.

"Playing matchmaker?"

He turned to see Éowyn looking in the direction he had been, a small smile on her face.

"No matchmaking with those. Merely tying two horses in the same meadow," he commented. She stood next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder. His arm moved, wrapping her in an embrace as he leaned his head forward to kiss the top of her head. "I'm so sorry. I failed you."

"You did not fail me, uncle," Éowyn whispered.

"I did. Had it not been for the selflessness of Ithilrhas the Green…" he trailed off, not wanting to think about what Gríma would have done to sweet Éowyn had she not been protected by the Green Lady. Éowyn wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I was scared. I would turn around and there he was. I would go places and _feel_ his eyes on me. I could not sleep well for fear that he would come upon me unawares," she said, her voice quaking as she trembled. Théoden held her tightly.

"You are my daughter in all but blood. It is over. Gríma is dead. The dragon warrior made sure of that," the King said, seeming satisfied.

"Good," Éowyn said simply. There were a few comfortable moments as she and her Uncle swayed gently in time with a nearby song.

"Have you not caught the eye of someone you wish to dance with?" Théoden asked, running his fingers through the tips of her golden hair. Éowyn sighed.

"His heart belongs to another, and I will not try to wrench it away," she said sadly. He kissed the top of her head again.

"There need not be declarations of love and devotion this night, though many there are! Find a handsome warrior and _dance!_ You do not have to marry whoever you dance with!" Théoden laughed. Éowyn was quiet for a few moments, before looking up at her uncle and smiling.

"Perhaps I will brave a dance with one of the men of Rhûn! They are handsome themselves in a dark, mysterious way!" she said mischievously. Théoden raised a fair eyebrow.

"Yes, well, I will not forbid it, because I know how well you do with direct orders," he began, and she flushed slightly. "Just act decorously of a Lady of your station. And stay away from that Orc! I'm fairly certain he's charmed himself into the leggings of several of the Rhûnic women! I'm not sure how he does it, but I do not want to take the chance that it is Black magic!" Théoden growled.

"You mean the Orc that is walking arm-in-arm with one of the barmaids and a Redling woman?" Éowyn said, unwrapping an arm to point at the figure walking in the distance. Sure enough, the shorter figure of Stargush was walking between the buxom barmaid, Hilde, and a willowy woman with greyish skin. Théoden's eyes narrowed. "He must be hung like a Rohirric stallion," she commented lightly. Théoden choked on air.

"Where did you hear such a terrible thing?" he gasped. She looked up, her blue eyes twinkling innocently in the torchlight.

"From Éomer," she said softly. Théoden narrowed his eyes and found his nephew, who was supervising a drinking game between an Uruk Redling and a man of Rhûn.

"I'll be sure to talk to him."

* * *

Goldhorn sat within the Golden hall, quite enjoying the smell of tobacco smoke and alcohol. His forked tongue flitted out, tasting the air.

"Enjoying yourself, Master Dragon?"

He looked down to see the Dwarf greeting him, and dipped his golden-fringed head politely.

"Quite so, Master Dwarf," he replied, plucking a plump piece of chicken from the plate next to his paw, and putting it into his mouth, bone and all. His teeth crunched the treat happily. "The Rohirrim know how to host a party."

"This is nothing! You should see a party of Dwarven proportions! Twice the beer! Twice the meat! I will say that the men of Rohan have a great deal more pretty women to serve, though," Gimli said, tipping his metal cap towards a curvy server. She winked at him and puffed up her ample chest.

"There are many curves on the two-legged females," Goldhorn agreed. "Those wide hips must be very good for laying young." Gimli laughed.

"We have not had our talk, Dragon King," Gimli said, taking a gulp of his beer. The Rohirrim made a mean dark beer.

"What is it you wish to talk about?" Goldhorn asked. Gimli seemed to be weighing his options.

"I suppose the most pressing issue: why do your people not attack the land as the Great Dragons have in the past?" he asked. Goldhorn flexed his gilded claws against the stone floor.

"There are no more Great Dragons. We are the Lesser Dragons. We do not get the same size. Do you know how hard it is to keep a Great Dragon fed? We purposely bred ourselves smaller so we would not starve. We can control our size to a certain extent. We had been at peace for _so long…_" he said, a deep sigh leaving his chest.

"Did Smaug have the support of your people?" Gimli asked. Goldhorn looked extremely uncomfortable.

"He was the last of the Great Dragons. He was our King until he abandoned his people in his greed for gold. We wanted peace, Master Gimli. And attacking Erebor was not conducive to dragons living in peace."

"But if he was the King then how did you take the role? Do your people inherit by blood or by conquest?"

Goldhorn paused to take another bite of his food, using the moment to think of the best way to explain. "We dragons normally put more emphasis on valor than blood. It is, however, not unheard of for us to be ruled for a few generations by the same family. Our colors…are also genetic. Mostly our offspring are born with the color of their father, but every so often they are born as a mixture of the two. If a white dragon bred with a black dragon, you would get a silver dragon. If a yellow dragon bred with a blue dragon, you would get a green dragon. If a blue dragon bred with a red dragon, you could get a purple dragon," Goldhorn said. Gimli was not stupid. He looked up at the Dragon King, whose particular palette of purple and gold was uncommon.

"You were the product of a red and blue dragon?" he asked. Goldhorn nodded.

"My father was a red dragon," Goldhorn said softly.

"Smaug was your father?" Gimli concluded.

"Aye."

There was silence between them. Then Gimli lifted his mug to his lips and took another gulp.

"Well then, I suppose I would like to hear how you met up with Naurlam, our own dragon," Gimli said. Goldhorn seemed to perk up a bit, his large pointed ears standing upright as he laughed.

"Aye, a story indeed is that! Well, it all started on a rather boring day in the mountains of Angmar, until a black dragon _quite literally_ fell through the roof of the home of my mate and I, and right into our bathing pool as she was having her evening ablutions!"

* * *

James and Draca walked hand-in-hand through the Meduseld. They had gotten their fill of the revelry, and were on their way to Draca's private room. She wanted to talk to him. She opened the door with a tilt of her staff, leading him into the sparsely decorated room. He looked around, his dark brows furrowing.

"It's very plain," he commented. She smiled at him, going over to the fireplace and setting a blaze with a tap of wood against the floor. She had gotten very adept at her Ardan magic.

"The Rohirrim do not put much stock in pretty trinkets, nor did I have the space in my pack over the years to carry them. Few and far between have been the treasures I gathered. Most of my treasures are here," she said, patting her hand over her heart. James grinned, gathering her close and burying his nose in her hair. She tilted her head against his chest so that she could hear the steady thumping of his heartbeat. James' heart actually beat slower than a human's, but it was a soothing rhythm nonetheless. James released her from his arms reluctantly, before toeing off his boots and removing his broad leather belt so that he could slip off his outer tunic. He was wearing a simple, white linen shirt underneath, and kept on his old-fashioned Middle Earth socks as he walked over to her bed. He flopped onto his stomach with the exuberance of a child, wriggling up onto the bed like a lizard and sighing at the simple comfort.

Draca laughed at him, but set aside her staff and climbed up onto the soft bed with him, lifting up his wing and burrowing up close to his side. There were two small thumps as she kicked off her leather slippers. He tilted towards her, and their faces almost touched as he kept his wing draped loosely over her.

"Wanna know a secret?" James asked softly, leaning his head forward to press their foreheads together. In the sparse light of the fire he could see her eyes glittering, even under the shadow of his wing.

"What?" she whispered. His face tilted forward, and their lips brushed together. She inhaled softly, breathing in the scent of his smoky breath. He tasted of fire and the slightly bitter taste of his acidic saliva. Then the kiss was over, and his eyes glowed with eldritch power.

"I love you," he said simply. She looked at him for several moments, before she shoved her face forward, kissing him hungrily. He was almost surprised, bringing up his hand to rest on her face. His fingers curled slightly, stroking the soft skin of her cheek as their lips met hungrily. Her hand rested on his chest for support, before her fingers clutched at the material of his shirt.

He shifted suddenly, coming to his knees and moving his hand across her face. The pads of his fingers brushed slightly over the tips of her ears, and she broke their contact with a shuddering gasp. Liquid heat traveled through her limbs, and a pleasant glowing ember was ignited in her belly. James looked down at her, his face somber in the flickering light of the fire. His nostrils flared, and she knew he had scented the beginning of her arousal.

"James…" she murmured softly. He moved over her, resting his arms on either side of her as he leaned down again to capture her lips. For only a moment she tried to compete with his heated kiss, but when she got a nip on her bottom lip and a low, rumbling growl in his chest, she merely laughed against his mouth. "I love you, too," she finally said.

James pulled back from her, his glowing eyes intense and the slitted pupil all but a thin line against the gold iris.

"Draca….I am almost to the point of no return," he said, his voice deep. It was little more than a growl rumbling in his chest. He felt her begin to tremble underneath him, but he could still smell the warm scent of her excitement. "If I leave now, I can dunk myself in the Snowbourn and regain my control. If I stay longer I _will_ make love to you. Multiple times. Probably until the morning light," he said. He saw the slight fear in her eyes as she must have been thinking of times past. With a soft sigh he moved to leave, sliding off of the bed and standing stiffly. A….large problem made his gait uneven as he moved towards where he had left his boots.

There was a shifting of fabric and the soft swish of skirts, and he felt her thin-fingered hand clasp around his wrist. He turned to her, noticing the fear in her silver eyes had been replaced by determination.

"I will not let him win. And if I deny you this night because of a little silly fear, then he will have won. Never…._never_ have you hurt me, James. You would not," she said, wrapping her arms around his narrow waist. His head tilted curiously at her, waiting for her to continue. She could feel the heat radiating off of him from his own arousal, and her determined expression morphed quite quickly into mischief. His dark brows rose slightly at the change. She bit at her lip, splaying a hand across his chest. "If I deny you, I fear I would never again let anyone touch me. And it is not in the Malfoy way to give up so easily," she continued, her hand trailing slowly down. She could feel his muscles starting to bunch up like a predator ready to pounce. His stomach muscles jerked slightly as her fingers flitted over his belly. His breath came rapidly as her hand hovered over a dangerous, sensitive spot. There was only an instant of hesitation, of torturous indecision, before her small hand splayed over the bulge in his leggings. "Make love to me."

Anyone outside of the door would have heard a deep, animalistic growl and the frenzied sound of clothes being thrown. There was a ripping of fabric and a feminine yelp.

"Dang it, James! I liked that dre- oh my! Well, that _is_ rather impressive, isn't- oomf!" And then there was silence as the static feel of magic was cast to create a privacy spell. James wasn't seen for many hours. Indeed, it was only a deep, unsettling feeling of Dark magic that roused him from beside the boneless, sleeping form of the Green Wizard.

Something evil was afoot.

* * *

He padded through the quiet hall of the Meduseld, his stocking feet making little sound. There were many sleeping pallets set up throughout the palace, giving a place for the many visitors. He also knew there was a massive encampment just outside the great Gate of Edoras, consisting of many Redlings and Riders of Rhûn.

He could smell the remnants of a huge party. There was still the smell of beer and wine and ale, the smell of food, and his sensitive nostrils could smell the scent of sex heavy in the air. A lazy grin curled the sides of his mouth. Mmm…his room had smelled quite a bit like that not too long ago.

His senses brought him to the Great Hall, which now looked like a giant patchwork quilt of sleeping pallets. What was it that had drawn him here? He could not-

"_Pippin… No! Pippin!" _He heard Merry whisper sharply. He bounded into action as the Palantír Pippin had stolen came to life. Pippin let out an unearthly screech just as James reached him. James placed his hands on the Palantír, and a wave of glittering magic was shoved away from the seeing stone. For several more moments Pippin held the stone, still screaming, before his hands suddenly fell away and he collapsed in a dead faint.

Gandalf was now on his feet as Aragorn and Legolas burst into the room. Many of the people around them were waking, obviously confused as to the ruckus. Gandalf stared at James in open horror.

He was holding the Palantír between clawed hands, his mouth open as arcs of angry magic rolled off of him. The stone looked like it contained an electrical storm, with bolts of internal lightning flashing against its core. James' eyes were alight with a power that made the hair on the back of Gandalf's neck prickle. The color kept flashing between a bright, solid white to a swirling mix of red, orange and yellow.

"Let it go!" Gandalf called.

Legolas could feel the almighty Black magic twisting in the air. It was overwhelming and it made the tips of his ears tingle unpleasantly. Static was starting to build in the air, making his fine hair stand up. Aragorn's hair was lifting as well as Gandalf's hair and beard. James' mouth suddenly began to work, and his lips formed into a snarl as his eyes faded into the swirling fire.

"_Pathetic hatchling! Wretched shadow of the creations of Morgoth! I will dominate this land. I will raze this dungheap of farmers and horses! I will turn the Stoneland into a pile of sand!" _His voice was rough and dark, and there were cries of terror as many started making connections.

Théoden King had emerged into the room with several others, watching the frightening scene. James' eyes flashed white again.

"Oh stuff a fork in it, you insufferable prick!" He snarled, his voice returning to a semblance of normality. "You are a giant, raging dick! For all your power, you've been killed _how many_ times? You'd think that you'd get the message by now!"

The eyes flashed again to the fiery, whirling glow.

"_I will enjoy breaking you. I will break your body. I will tear your flesh to ribbons. You will beg me for death. And I, being a merciful Lord, will grant it. But not until every person you love lies dead at your feet. When your world is broken around you, then I will put you out of your misery." _The growling voice replied.

"Shove it up your arse, Sauron, you fire-eyed fucktard!" James snarled as his eyes faded to white again. There was a battle then as his eyes flickered quickly, and for several moments neither of them had dominance over the other as static magic built steadily in the air. Gandalf, his whole body taut with the sheer amount of magical force in the room, saw what was going to happen a few moments before it did.

"Down!" he cried, hitting the floor and covering his head.

When a wizard hits the ground, _everyone_ hits the ground, and there was a scrambling as several people who had stood dropped to the floor. There was a flash and a sound like lightning striking metal, and their ears popped painfully as the magical pressure suddenly abated. When the flashing, arcing magic finally faded, James was left standing with the dark Palantír in his hand. His golden eyes were lidded with exhaustion.

"Naurlam? What did you see? What did you tell him?" Gandalf asked. James swallowed hard.

"I told him he was a jackass of the highest degree. He didn't take kindly to that," James said, and many murmured at the audacity of the warrior. "I wrenched Pippin from him. He was trying to question him, but there was no time for either to get any information. When he turned to me, I saw a vision of a courtyard with a bare white tree," James said.

"Minas Tirith…" Aragorn sighed as he stood. James looked at the grey-eyed Ranger.

"It was burning," he said, eerily calm. Then James looked down at the Palantír.

"I'll take that, my lad," Gandalf said, getting to his feet and removing his white cloak before taking the Palantír in his cloth-wrapped hands and bundling it up. James stood for several more moments, looking around dumbly.

"I'm feeling a bit woozy," he mumbled. He looked at Gandalf. "I know what you will do. Don't leave without me." Gandalf raised a fluffy eyebrow. James merely grinned.

Then he took a step forward and his eyes rolled back as he tilted forward, going over like felled tree.

* * *

Wowz. James had a bit going on there at the end, didn't he? I finally got James and Draca officially together! Yay! And for those who were wondering, because it wasn't specifically mentioned, Orion was moved to the Halls of Healing at Rohan, and it would have been at the request of Sirius. Sirius would have stayed with his son, so he wasn't mentioned in this chapter.

During the festivities I like to think that Hathalmyrn was peeking in the ladies' bathhouses like the naughty little wraith he is. XD

Stargush is a pimp. Lol.

Anyway, you've read the chapter, and if you haven't I would love it if you favorite or follow the story. Or leave a review, I like those too! And now, without further ado, I present to you a preview of the 'Girl falls into Middle Earth and gets turned into an Orc' story.

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BONUS PREVIEW! BONUS PREVIEW!

* * *

Someone called her name? Perhaps it was a dream. She could not remember falling asleep, though. It would be lovely to have that dream about the picnic with Lord Elrond again. He seemed so nice in her dream, so serene and polite. She likened him more to the book Elrond as opposed to the movie Elrond. He had been gracious, but with an uneven temper that was not conducive to a relaxed environment.

Hmm…everything felt hazy, somehow. And yet, she was being assaulted with sounds and smells that were far beyond anything she had ever experienced before. She opened her mouth, trying to call out, but only succeeded in letting out a soft moan.

"_Cerena?"_ She opened her eyes.

She looked over and saw Olórin leaning back on his hands, his bright blue eyes wide with what appeared to be shock. He was open mouthed as he stared at her.

"Olórin?" she asked softly. Then she paused. Everything tasted funny. She stuck out her tongue, and yelped as something pricked it. Then she carefully ran her tongue over her teeth, and yelped loudly. "I have fangs! Why do I have fangs?" She asked, flapping her hands uselessly. Then she noticed the shiny black talons on the end of her fingers. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice squeaking.

"I'm not sure…" Olórin stuttered. She looked up at him, noticing for the first time that they were no longer in her house.

"Where are we? Why did we leave the house? I can't remember…" she said.

"I brought you here, Cerena," Olórin said. Cerena looked around, noticing the dirt road that stretched on as far as the eye could see, and the high trees that lined the road.

"Did you kidnap me? There's no one to send for ransom. My parents are dead and I didn't inherit a lot," she said, drawing up her knees.

"I want no money, child," he said, still staring at her unsurely.

"Are you…going to rape me?" she asked. He spluttered indignantly, and it seemed to snap him out of whatever trance he had found himself in.

"I should think not, girl! _Indeed._ Come, up on your feet. We've miles to go before we can rest, and miles yet before we reach safe haven," he said, getting to his feet.

"What do you want with me? Where are we?" Cerena asked insistently. Olórin looked at her and sighed.

"We are on our way to Imladris, called Rivendell in the common tongue," he said. Her brown face flushed an ugly color.

"How _dare_ you? I took you into my home…I fed you and gave you a place to sleep. I could have just called an ambulance and been done with you! And you repay me by dragging me out into woods in the middle of God-knows-where, and telling me we're going to Rivendell? Next you'll tell me that I should just call you Gandalf!" she snapped, her voice dropping in anger.

"It would be easier for you to call me that. I'm not known by Olórin on these Shores," he said, turning and beginning to walk. "You should join me. There's safety in numbers, and without me I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Rivendell wasn't known for its inhospitality," she said automatically. Then she stood to her feet, brushing the dust from her body. "Listen to me! I've been drawn into the crazy!" she snarled, surprising herself when it sounded quite animalistic in her chest.

"Normally, no. But with your…change of appearance I feel it would be safer to travel with me," Gandalf said diplomatically.

"Change of appearance?" she asked.

"Well…"

* * *

She refused to talk to him. They walked in uncomfortable, stiff silence. She was growling lowly in her chest, an interesting sound coming from a woman. His staff made soft thuds against the dirt road as they walked, and her canvass shoes left a strange print wherever they trod. They walked for hours this way.

"Are we there yet?" she asked suddenly, her voice sharp.

"No. We are not. If I am judging the point of the road correctly, it will likely take us two days to get to Rivendell," he commented. She stopped and turned to him.

"Two days?" she asked. He nodded, and continued walking. "Why does it take so long?"

"Because we have no horse. We will stop in an hour if we've made good time," he said, and she hurried to catch up with him.

"Why did you turn me into an orc?" she blurted suddenly. He stopped.

"I suppose we can stop now," he commented, walking off of the road and into the lush grass. He eased the leather pack off of his back and sat on the ground, placing his staff beside him as he withdrew a few parcels of food. She sat near him, her stomach growling. He gave her a bit of dried meat, some dried, fruity mixture, and a piece of hard cheese.

"Let's get one thing straight: I had no intention of changing your appearance. I was not made privy to that information. Apparently the Valar have plans for you. And barring that, then Eru himself as stepped in and placed his hand on you," Gandalf said, withdrawing a skin of water. It tasted a bit stale, but it was clean.

"But if the Valar changed me… I thought only Morgoth was evil enough to twist beings into orcs?" She asked, gnawing on her dried meat. Gandalf seemed to study her.

"This is true…mostly. Melkor took elves and tortured them, twisting their bodies and spirits into a parody of their former selves. It seems to me that while your body has been changed, your soul is left intact. I know not what purpose it will serve, but I know that it must be important for them to drag you from another world all the way here to accomplish it," Gandalf replied.

"But why an orc? Why not stay human? Or be a hobbit? Or an elf?" she asked. Gandalf shook his head.

"I know not. I will keep you as safe as I may. We need to get to the safety of Rivendell quickly," he said. She nibbled at her cheese, feeling quite odd as she ate. Her orcish stomach didn't seem to like anything other than the dried meat, though she had been fond of cheese and fruit before. It was a grumbly feeling, not painful, but her tummy was not happy with her.

They walked again until the sun started down behind the horizon, coloring the sky brilliant colors as the wavelengths of light lengthened.

* * *

So what did you think? This is an excerpt from Chapter 2 in the story that I have tentatively called 'I Dreamed a Dream.'

Let me know what you thought of it!


	32. The Measure of a Friend

Oh guys, you spoil me! I'm glad you enjoyed the little preview for the Orc-girl. I have been working on it as well as this one, and I hope to get up the first chapter very soon. :D This chapter has some interesting stuff going on. It's the ride for Minas Tirith, with several additional visitors. Lol, let's all give Denethor a heart attack! }:]

So, without further ado, I give you chapter 32. (Hey that kind of rhymed…)

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Chapter 32 – The Measure of a Friend

James awoke with a pounding headache and a ravenously empty stomach. He had been taken back to Draca's quarters and put on her bed. When he awoke it was to the sound of Draca moving around the room, an empty pack on the edge of the bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked groggily. She flashed him a smile, before putting a folded cloak into the pack.

"Packing," she said.

"For what?" he asked curiously.

"I'm going with you to Minas Tirith," she said. James was quiet for a few moments, before he carefully rolled off of the bed and approached her. He caught her mid-stride, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her waist. She wiggled her bottom against his hips and was rewarded with a few light nips along the juncture of her throat and shoulder. "You will not talk me out of it."

"I wouldn't dream of it. If I tried then I wouldn't be able to make love to you in the white city," he commented, burying his face into her hair.

"Pippin has been tasked with accompanying Gandalf as well," she said. "And Lord Boromir will accompany them back to his city. Then the Redling lady, Talun, begged her leader to go with him, to which he agreed. Boromir wants to take the Nazgûl with him, but Hathalmyrn will not go anywhere without your father. When you add the fact that you said you would be going with them, Gandalf is getting perturbed with the large group."

"Gandalf is fun to piss off," James snickered. Draca turned her head and clutched at his arms.

"We are close to the end, James. For better or for worse we are at the precipice," she said shudderingly. James withdrew his arms and turned her around to face him.

"With every bit of magic that Eru graced me with I will fight. Should it come to someone standing to fight Sauron face-to-face, I will fight. If I have to march on Mordor and bathe its black soil with the blood of its people, I will fight," James said. Draca smiled at him.

"I know you will. Now go get your things ready, silly boy. We have to leave very soon!" she said, giving him a playful whack across his chest. His hands came up, resting on each side of her face before he leaned forward, kissing her with quiet gentleness.

"I love you, Draca. No matter what happens, I love you," he said softly. For a moment she said nothing, before a grin broke across her face.

"I love you, too."

* * *

"Boromir, do you have everything in your pack? We can't turn around once we start…"

"Talun, I packed everything this morning. I appreciate your concern but this is not my first trip."

"I'm only nervous to travel to your country, my love. I apologize…"

"Oh, God! Get a room, you two! Even Hathalmyrn isn't as gross as that!"

"Thou art a boaster and a creature most foul, dragon-born."

"Hathalmyrn…stop calling names. You have to be on your best behavior in Minas Tirith or they'll probably burn you in effigy or something."

"Yes, Master…"

"Draca, I hope you didn't think you were going off on this little trip by yourself!"

"Ada! Don't treat me like I'm three, please! The others need you here. Mr. Black is with Orion, and the people need a powerful wizard. It gives them hope."

A large group stood in the courtyard at Edoras. James had a pack slung across his back and was waiting with Boromir and Talun. Harry and Hathalmyrn were speaking quietly now, discussing what was going to be expected of the wraith when they arrived at the White City. Draca was holding onto her staff tightly as she argued with her grandfather. Merry and Pippin were feverishly saying goodbye to each other.

Gandalf finally stepped forward and brought his staff down with a sharp crack. All eyes were on the white wizard.

"We leave now. I cannot wait while you bicker among yourselves. Come now," he said sharply. Draca reached up and put her hand on her grandfather's cheek.

"The blue wizards are with them. They are more familiar with them than me," Lucius said softly. Draca could see the imperceptible glimmer at his eyelashes. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his robes and inhaling deeply.

"I'm sorry for being selfish. Of course another wizard is welcome amongst us. Forgive me," she said, her voice muffled. He kissed the top of her head.

"You can't help but be an obstinate Malfoy," he commented lightly, causing her to laugh as she pulled away.

Gandalf plopped Pippin on Shadowfax's back, before mounting swiftly behind him. James shifted into his dragon form and stood in front of Boromir and Talun. Boromir situated the half-Uruk carefully on the dragon's back, before mounting behind her.

"God, Boromir….eat less…" James grunted. It was not that much of a burden, he just like pissing off the Man of Gondor.

Lucius and Harry mounted their broomsticks and Hathalmyrn would fly behind his Master under his own power. That just left Draca.

"How are you traveling, Ithilrhas?" Gandalf asked. Draca gave a brilliant smile.

"I think I'll take a run," she said. Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow. Draca carefully shoved her staff through a place on her pack and concentrated. Her body shifted and grew, the green robes melting and fading seamlessly into white fur as her human body became that of a white horse. The silver hooves clopped musically against the cobblestone, and many of the people of Rohan, who had gathered around to see off Gandalf on Shadowfax, murmured in approval.

Théoden stepped forward, resting his hand on the broad, velvety muzzle of Draca's unicorn form. He ran his hand up her nose to touch the warm silver horn in awe. She tilted her head to gaze at him, and he noticed that even in her equine form that her eyes were still star-silver. He laughed and patted her neck. She shifted back within the same breath, smiling up at the King.

She held up her hand, revealing a handful of the silver hairs from her mane.

"Unicorn hair is a vastly magical material. It is prized for its magical properties in many potions, but when given freely it is a source of good luck," she said. She took the small clump of silver hairs and reached up, swiftly braiding the soft hairs into the King's golden hair. Then she stood back. He smiled at her.

"You fought Gríma's power over me, allowing me to keep some of my mind. You gave me opportunity to say goodbye to my son. You protected my niece from a terrible fate, and you saw my people as your own. You were always meant to come to Rohan, and you are always welcome here. I name you _freonde,_ friend. Thank you," he said simply, resting his hand on her shoulder.

"I hope to see the Land of Rohan as bright and golden as it once was. I wish you luck, Théoden King," she said, before stepping back and shifting into her unicorn form again. In front of the King of Rohan and the people of Edoras, she rose on her back legs and bayed, her thick, shaggy forelegs pawing at the air. Shadowfax took the sound as a cue and took off himself, leading Gandalf and Pippin out of Edoras. Draca's silver hooves made sparks as she ran, with James and his burdens just behind them, his wings folded so that he did not catch air just yet. Lucius, Harry and Hathalmyrn made up the rear.

Merry watched as the figures went further and further out of sight. He felt a comforting weight on his head, and finally looked over to see Aragorn standing next to him, his hand laid on Merry's hair. Merry accepted the comfort willingly.

"He's always followed me, everywhere I went, since before we were tweens. I would get him into the worst sort of trouble, but I was always there to get him out. Now he's gotten himself into trouble that I can't get him out of. Now he's gone. Just like Frodo and Sam," he whispered.

"I have learned much of Hobbits these many weeks we have traveled together. You have surprised me many times, Meriadoc Brandybuck. What has your kindness wrought? Look around you! One little lost boy was given mercy and love because you saw him not as a creature, but as a child to be loved. How many were saved from the pits of Isengard because you befriended one of the very creatures who held you captive? The Uruk Lady would ride to war with you right now if you asked it of her. The children of Isengard will grow because of you. Your kinsmen may be out of your sight and reach, but how many have you touched with your heart? You are a brave soul, and I am ever honored to be counted as a friend to you," Aragorn said.

Merry could not help the smile that stretched his lips. Then he turned back to where the figures of his friends appeared. He could just see as Naurlam spread his mighty wings and took to the sky, flapping powerfully.

The race to warn Minas Tirith had begun.

* * *

Flying was something that had never entered into the mind of Boromir. He had always been far more pragmatic than his brother, whose thoughts were often in the air. Not that his brother was not an accomplished warrior. But he would always be a better scholar than he was a soldier. Faramir….he longed to look on his brother's face again. What would his brother say to the woman who had stolen his heart? What would his _father_ say?

They were not terribly high in the air, but it was still breathtaking to watch Shadowfax and Ithilrhas running along the grass below. Naurlam's powerful wings kept them aloft and moved them along at a great speed. Boromir could feel the bunching of his muscles each time his wings shifted. It was akin and much different than riding a horse.

Talun had unbound her hair from the tight braids she'd worn at Helm's Deep, and her hair was in a fluffy, curling tail at the back of her head. Boromir could smell the lovely scent of the oils she used as her curls tickled his face. He leaned forward slightly, his arms wrapping more securely around her. She turned her head slightly, the sun catching against her yellow eyes as she grinned at him.

"We're flying, Boromir!" She called into the wind.

"Each moment with you feels like a flight of my heart!" he called in return.

"_Lame!_" Came Naurlam's bellowing response. Boromir's booted foot kicked into Naurlam's side. "Oh, we're doing that?"

Naurlam suddenly folded his wings and dove. Boromir's ears rang as Talun shrieked in fright, and his stomach bottomed out as the ground approached rapidly. At the last possible second James extended his wings with a snap, leveling off with only a few feet to spare beneath them. He glided beside the unicorn form of the Green Wizard, and she turned to them, tossing her silver mane and whickering excitedly. A few thrusts of his wings brought them back into the air, and there was silence as the two riders regained their breath.

"James!"

They turned to see Harry sitting astride his broom, his robes snapping out behind him at their high speed. Boromir had never seen the likes of these flying brooms. The handle was carved wood, an elegant looking thing with carved hand-holds and a sturdy build. The tail twigs were streamlined into an ovular shape and he could see magic sparkling off of the tips of the twig. Though he didn't know it, the trail of glittering magic is what had lent to the name of this particular broom, the Shooting Star.

"Be careful, my lad!" Harry said.

They traveled swiftly, until the sun was deeply behind the horizon, and only the light of a nearly full moon lit their trail. James could see well in the night, being a creature of it. Hathalmyrn, too, was not bothered by the night, was indeed bolstered by it. He tolerated the daytime, and it seemed to be less loathsome for him since his connection to Harry Potter, but it did not fill him with strength and heartiness as the night did.

Draca's unicorn form glowed in the light of the moon. Though she was Peredhel and her skin did not radiate with the glow of the Eldar, she did have an inner flame in her Animagus form that made her easy to spot on the dark landscape. Shadowfax's coat caught the light of the moon as well, and the two bright spots were easy for Harry and Lucius to follow, since James and Hathalmyrn were nearly impossible to spot in the night sky.

They camped late into the night, resting only until the sun broke the horizon. Hathalmyrn, having no need for physical rest, was their guard.

On the second morning of their travel, it was Harry that awoke first. He kindled a small fire so that they could at least have a hot breakfast and retrieved a few supplies. Hathalmyrn was perched on a low branch like a shadowed bird, and Harry looked up into the guarded tree.

"Anything happen in the night, Hath?" he asked conversationally. The wraith slithered down from its perch, materializing at the base of the tree and reclining with the ease of a shadow.

"Nay, Master. No living creature is brave enough to approach both Nazgûl and dragon. Even the slaves of Mordor would be reluctant to seek out either, much less both," Hathalmyrn replied.

"Very well," Harry said, tending to the sausages. He looked up over the fire to see James sprawled out in his dragon form, one wing thrown up over his face. He allowed himself a smile at the sight. Silly boy… "And how are you this morning, my friend?" he asked, tilting his head back towards the wraith. Hathalmyrn's shrouded head slanted curiously.

"Friend? I do not recall such a word, Master," he replied honestly. Harry paused as he turned to the Nazgûl.

"A friend? Surely you had friends, once, Hathalmyrn," Harry said. Hathalmyrn shifted, drawing as close to the warm bite of the fire as he dared. Daylight he may tolerate, but fire was not his ally.

"Dost thou mean allies, Master?" the wraith inquired. Harry's mouth thinned as he reached up and smoothed down his morning hair.

"No, Hath. A friend. Someone you liked, trusted…someone you knew well."

"I knew and trusted my captains when I was a King of Men. I trusted my Master's will when I was bound to the Lord of Mordor," Hathalmyrn replied hesitantly. Harry's eyes reflected the light of the fire, and Hathalmyrn could see the grass-green of their depths clearly. He held more power than a Man. Hathalmyrn could attest to the steady thrum of power that connected him to his new Master. The exchange of energies was vastly different to his previous Lord. Sauron did not give, only take. Harry and Hathalmyrn had a strange symbiotic exchange of energies going on. In return for the magic to keep his form and power, Harry had found himself strangely tireless and spry in his waking hours. The shriek of the Nazgûl did not bother him when it sounded, and the Darkness that shrouded the specter did not sear him with cold.

"Well…for all that we have been through, and even for my impatience sometimes, I hope that we are friends," Harry finally said, drawing the skillet from the fire.

"Friends, Master?" Hathalmyrn asked. "Few times have there been that I wish for the memories and feelings of my life before I carried one of the Nine Rings. But now I would that I could remember what 'friend' is, so that I could please you with it," Hathalmyrn said softly.

"I am pleased with you, Hathalmyrn. I have had a hard life, devoid of much emotional comfort until I was into my majority. I do not always know how to deal with the intricacies of personality as well as I should. Sometimes I am brash. But though I have snapped at you, there has not been a time I have regretted becoming your Master," Harry grinned. The shadow that was Hathalmyrn moved again, reaching forward a gauntleted hand to touch his Master's face.

Something happened. It was not a great act of magical power. It did not charge the air or spark with energy. Hathalmyrn felt a pressure in his chest when he touched his Master. He did not know the feeling. He could not place it. He had not felt this for his previous Master and he did not understand.

"Should the forces of Mordor assail thee, I would willingly lay down my existence to keep thee safe, Master. Not because thou art my keeper, but because I strive to know thee as friend."

And as the last vestiges of night faded into the glory of morning, the remnants of the stars glowed like they never had before, and a calm wind caressed the land like the gentle breath of a parent holding its child.

* * *

"There! See the gate of the Rammas Echor!"

Boromir was pointing ahead as they ran. James had come down on the ground for the last few miles of their journey. His wings were folded against their legs and his muscles worked as his sharp claws turned up the ground. Ithilrhas' hooves sang like a sword being drawn from its sheath, her silver mane twinkling like a waterfall as she ran. Shadowfax had his own brilliance in the light of day as he led their troop.

The two wizards and the Nazgûl zipped behind them, trying to stay low to the ground so as not to alarm the guards of the Rammas Echor, or the guarding wall that stretched in a ring around the city before even reaching the Gates of the First Level.

"Hold! Who comes to the Gate of Minas Tirith?" called the loud voice of a guard. Boromir squeezed his knees together as one would for a horse in an effort to move James forward, but the dragon only reached up and pinched his calf with sharp claws. Boromir bit his tongue to keep from yelping in an unmanly way.

"Hail, Ingold! 'Tis I, Boromir, come with news for my father!" Boromir called.

"A son of Gondor thought dead has returned! But here! A Nazgûl comes on your tail, Lord! Why does it not attack?"

"Oh, that's because he's mine. He's totally cool, everyone. Perfectly harmless, right Hathalmyrn?" Harry commented from his broomstick. Hathalmyrn did not like being referred to as 'harmless,' but dipped his head in deference to his Master's words.

"A mild kitten am I," he commented. Harry patted the cloaked shoulder.

"Let's not get carried away," he said.

"Eru's grace! 'Tis a dragon you sit upon, Lord Boromir! Surely this is tidings of evil!" came the voice again.

"Allies, my friends! All are allies! Who else but the Captain of the White Tower could return with a dragon and a Nazgûl to add to our numbers? And more still will fight with us!" he said. "And see here do I bring Gandalf to us!"

"Yea truly, we know you, My Lord, and the Grey Wizard," said the leader of the men of the gate. "And you know the pass-words of the Seven Gates and are free to go forward. But we do not know your companions. A dragon, a Nazgûl, a riderless horse, a dwarf, a dark-skin of the South, and two Men of strange garb flying astride cleaning supplies! We cannot welcome strangers here, as well you know, unless they be mighty and valiant men upon whom we can place our trust."

"Ingold. Long have you known me, and long has Gandalf come to this city. All of them I would vouch for before the seat of my father the Steward. The dragon traveled with me and my company for a time, proving himself as a friend and ally to Gondor. The Nazgûl fought with the Men of the West to defend Rohan against the emptying of Isengard against the Hornburg. This riderless horse is a Wizardess in disguise! That _dwarf _is no dwarf, and his size is no indication of valor. He is a Hobbit of the Shire, and well counted as my friend and a valiant companion! This is no Southerner! She is of Gondorian heritage, and comes as an ambassador of a whole new breed of ally to the gates of the white city. And the two men of strange garb are wizards of great power, one of which holds sway over the Nazgûl with us," Boromir said.

"My Lord, you are a miracle unlooked for in these days. You will be a ghost to your father, who thought you dead," Ingold said. Boromir seemed surprised, looking back to Gandalf for a moment.

"Dead? How came he by such news?" he asked. There was silence, before the gate of Rammas Echor was opened. Several men stood inside the gate, and one of the tall men of Gondor, Ingold, stepped out of the gate towards the group. He looked at the dragon Boromir was sitting on, but drew himself up and approached.

"It is well assumed by the Steward. And Lord Faramir had many disturbing dreams, My Lord. It is said you were surrounded by orcs. Taken to their midst after being pierced with many arrows," he said.

"I was struck with arrows," Boromir agreed, his gloved hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. "But it was not as a prisoner I was taken. No time have we to tell this story, Ingold. I was with a colony of half-bloods, a people created of the cruelty of Orcs to the women of Rohan and Gondor. Yet they healed me, and now here I am, back in my city. Let us pass, all of us, Ingold. Much news have I to give my father." Ingold's face held a sort of wonder, and his eyes traveled to Talun's face. A sort of understanding passed his features as he looked into her slitted, yellow eyes.

"I may well pay for this with my head, but you may pass the gate, my Lords. Make haste, lest a cry of defense go up from the presence of the Nazgûl," Ingold said, motioning for the people to stand aside. He watched as they walked through the gate, entering into the vastness of the Pelennor: fair and fertile town lands on the long slopes and terraces falling to the deep levels of the Anduín.

As they passed through the gates, James couldn't help but grin at the guards. He winked at one of them, causing his face to go white with fear. Shadowfax passed behind James, cantering in front of him when they passed through the gates, and looking at the black dragon with a look of haughty scorn. James snorted at the horse. Draca walked by the guards, bowing her head at them as she passed. Her unshod silver hooves clicked metallically against the hard ground. Hathalmyrn passed by them, floating languidly behind the group. His shrouded head turned to the same guard James had grinned at, and in an effort to be polite he nodded his cloaked head. The guard looked distinctly green. Harry and Lucius brought up the rear, their boots brushing the dust as they ducked into the gate, before rising up again on the other side.

So the great company of the allies of the West rode to the Great Gate of the Men of Gondor at the rising of the sun on their third day of travel, and its iron doors rolled back before them.

* * *

Gracious me! So many more people going to Gondor. I was doing a read-ahead of the movie script and also of the book in an attempt to be prepared for what lies ahead. And then I realized that I had taken a poo on all avenues of those particular story lines. There's still things that will and have to happen, but they're going to have to be coaxed gently.

I'm biting my lips in excitement of James meeting Denethor, but I didn't want the chapter to drag, so I'll save it for next time. :) I'm super stoked that you guys have enjoyed this story, and that there were so many of you that seemed excited about the Orc-girl story. I have gotten up through chapter three written, and I may post soon. The only thing I'm worried about is either story interfering with the other. I always feel like I'm cheating on the other stories if I write more than one at a time, because there's always an inevitable plot dry-point, and it's not always for both stories. I dunno.

Let me know what you think. Would you read both stories at the same time?

If you haven't, I would love to have you favorite and/or follow the story. This lets people know that it's a good story even if there aren't a lot of reviews. And as always, if you have a few moments to spare, I would love to see a review from you! It always makes my day brighter!


	33. The Lord and the Lady

Not much to go one here, today. Wanted to get this chapter up so I'm not going to leave much of an author's note. If anyone is interested, I did end up posting the 'Girl in ME turns into an orc' story. It's called I Dreamed a Dream and there's three chapters up so far. That will be the next story I update, and will try to go back and forth equally. Thank you all for your ongoing support, and I'm excited that we're finally starting to draw up to the final battles here!

* * *

Chapter 33 – The Lord and The Lady

At last they came out of shadow to the seventh gate, and the warm sun that shone down beyond the river glowed here on the smooth walls and rooted pillars, and the great arch with keystone carven in the likeness of a crowned and kingly head. Gandalf dismounted, for no horse was allowed in the Citadel, and Shadowfax suffered himself to be led away at the soft word of his master. When another stable hand tried to lead away Ithilrhas, she returned to her two-legged form with a soft popping noise. The stable hand barely refrained from shrieking loudly.

Boromir dismounted from James' back and helped Talun off as well. She stretched out languidly, finding Boromir's eyes roving her hungrily. She winked at him. The stable-hand lost his battle with his repressed shriek when James changed back and accidentally brushed him with a wing.

"Such fortitude in the men of Minas Tirith," James said lightly. Boromir sniffed haughtily.

"Not all balk at first sign of a dragon," he said sharply, as the recovering young man had the grace to look ashamed.

"Yea, some people have the balls to throw a knife at my face _Boromir,_" James said pointedly. Boromir merely smiled like a predator. "You sassy bitch," James muttered.

"If Denethor thinks you dead, Boromir, he may have a hard time accepting your presence. As for the rest of you," he said, pinning them all with a powerful blue stare. "It may be best to stand quiet and listen, _Naurlam_," Gandalf said, using the same technique James had used on Boromir and then basically glaring at him. James raised his arms to the side in mock offense.

"_What?_ You don't think I know how to behave in the presence of the high-born? Oh, offend the Lord of the Golden Wood _once_ and you're branded as offensive for life…." James muttered. Draca laughed lightly at him.

"If it soothes thy feelings, I am of fair certainty I saw someone faint at my coming," Hathalmyrn provided 'helpfully.' Gandalf turned to the wraith, which towered over all of them in height.

"And as for you….stay with your Master," He said in a resigned voice. Hathalmyrn bobbed his head eagerly, and they crossed the white-paved court. A sweet fountain played there in the morning sun, and a swath of bright green lay about it; but in the midst, drooping over the pool, stood a dead tree, and the falling drops dripped sadly from its barren and broken branches back into the clear water.

James stared at the tree as they passed, his body shuddering in revulsion as he remembered the mental fight he'd waged with Sauron, and the visions of the tree burning.

"I like that tree better when it's not on fire," James commented lightly. Boromir turned to him, his eyes narrowed.

"So do I. So let's keep it that way, shall we?" he said snappily.

"How about I set your dad on fire?" James murmured.

* * *

At the far end upon a dais of many steps was set a high throne under a canopy of marble shaped like a crowned helm; behind it was carved upon the wall and set with gems an image of a tree in flower. But the throne was empty. At the foot of the dais, upon the lowest step which was broad and deep, there was a stone chair, black and unadorned, and on it sat an old man, his gaze in his lap. In his hand was a white rod with a golden knob. He did not look up. Solemnly they paced the long floor towards him, until they stood three paces from his footstool. Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but there was a shuffle of green skirts in front of him, and Draca stepped forward.

"Hail, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion!"

Denethor looked up, his glittering eyes resting on the Green Wizard as she dropped into a perfect curtsey.

"Dost my eyes deceive me, or has the fair presence of the Green Lady graced the White City once more?" he asked, standing from his seat. Draca turned to Gandalf and winked. She was rewarded with the rare sight of Gandalf looking absolutely gobsmacked.

"What…?" James was floored. Draca offered her hand in a dainty manner, and the Steward dropped into a light bow, bringing her hand to his mouth to brush a kiss across her knuckles.

"Long has it been since I've seen the beauty of Minas Tirith. I have missed it so," Draca replied. Denethor straightened.

"What could have possibly kept-," but he trailed off as his eyes traveled over the group. He did not look pleased to see Gandalf, but his expression warred between relief and disbelief when his eyes fell on Boromir.

"Lord Father," Boromir said softly, stepping forward. Denethor's face paled and he reached out trembling hands. Boromir took his father's hand.

"My son," Denethor breathed, lifting his other hand to rest on Boromir's face, as though he could not believe it was him. "How are you returned to me? I had feared the worst when we heard the horn blowing thirteen days ago. Then word came to me that your brother had dreamed you taken into an orc's den while pierced with arrows," Denethor said.

"I _was_ injured, father. And I was taken into a den of orcs…in a way…" Boromir said. Denethor seemed to realize that there were many others with them, and withdrew his hands from his son.

"I should like to hear this tale in its ent- By Eru's grace!" Denethor recoiled when he caught sight of Hathalmyrn.

"Oh, Father! What a tale have we to tell! That Nazgûl is loyal to the green-eyed wizard beside him!" Boromir said, pointing to Harry. Harry nodded and inclined his head.

"Yes, Hathalmyrn is my responsibility. As meek or fierce as I need him to be. At my order he will not harm anyone or sound the Nazgûl's shriek," Harry said. Hathalmyrn bobbed his shrouded head in agreement.

"Father, our journey has been long and we are in need of food. Let us tell our tale over a meal," Boromir said.

And so it was that they were taken to one of the private dining rooms and served a great meal, over which some of the details of the Fellowship were shared. Boromir did not mention Sam and Frodo's destination, only that they had sought another way to deal with the Ring. James was watching the Steward closely, his eyes narrow.

"Boromir, I sent you to retrieve the Ring for Gondor, so that we might prevail against Mordor!" Denethor exclaimed at one point. Before any of the others could speak, Hathalmyrn inserted himself firmly into the conversation.

"Thou art a fool if thou thinkest for a moment that the Ring could be wielded by any but the Lord of Mordor. Thou wouldst become a slave to the will of the Ring. It betrayed Isildur and led him to his death. It destroyed the will and spirit of the creature Gollum, wretched thing that he was… It led us straight to the Halfling in his little green home. But if thou wishest the destruction of the city, then by all means wish for the Ring to come here. If thou hast a death wish, I can guarantee that I can offer thee a death far quicker and less agonizing than the one you would receive when the Dark Lord pried his treasure from the twisted fingers of your scorched corpse," the wraith hissed, stepping very close to the Steward. Denethor could feel the icy breath of the Nazgûl, and trembled in his seat.

None moved to help him. He needed to know that the Ring was not available.

"Father, we have other options. Rohan will come, soon! And the Renegades of Rhûn with them. They fought valiantly at Helm's Deep! And Naurlam can call for his folk to come. And the Redlings. Father, Gondor will not lack allies if only we extend the call!" Boromir said.

"Men of the East, children of Morgoth, and filthy, stinking orcs! You would have Gondor crawl on its belly with the muck! You would have Gondor lie with the dogs!" Denethor hissed. Talun stood, slapping her hand against the table.

"My people have spilled their blood destroying the Enemy as well! We have lost our honor and our families because of the cruelty of our fathers! My mother was a woman of Gondor, my Lord. She was raped brutally, and I am the result of that foul union! I would see my mother's people succeed! I would gladly lay down my life to see Minas Tirith rise as the blessed bastion of light and hope that it was once before!" She exclaimed.

"Then do Minas Tirith a favor and throw yourself from its walls! One less orc to destroy!" Denethor fumed. Talun inhaled sharply and recoiled as if struck. James stood from his seat finally, his wings shifting side to side and his tail writhing like a serpent.

"You reek of the Dark Lord," he said boldly. Harry watched his son quietly, and Lucius was silent as well, his wand in his hand under the table. "I have been in his presence several times. I stood at the base of his throne and defied him. I stood in a spiritual plane and sundered his power from the Three Elven Rings. I fought him again as I gazed into the Palantír. He has a very distinct smell…a very distinct feel."

James had pushed his chair back and was walking towards the Steward. Denethor was slightly pale, but he managed a sneer for James.

"I suppose a half-breed of Morgoth would know what a Dark Lord smells like," he retorted. James' thin lips turned up as he grinned, his teeth parting so that his lethal looking fangs glinted in the torchlight.

"He stands taller than any Man of Gondor or Rohan. His teeth are as sharp as razors, his face sooty with the ashes of Mordor when he removes his grotesque, twisted helm. His touch burns like acid, and his eyes are like the fires of Mt. Doom. I have looked on his face and walked away. I have faced the deadliest of his servants and walked away. Do not seek to offend me, Son of Gondor. Fire may be the enemy's harshest weapon, but I _breathe_ fire. Do not play with fire, _steward_, or you will be _scorched."_ Fire licked at James' lips, giving him a hellish appearance.

"James."

The simple word from Harry was not harsh or loud, but the flamed died in James' mouth, leaving only the bitter taste of ash.

"You would be wise to take allies where you can find them, Steward, or else you will find yourself in a sea of destruction with no one to throw you a lifeline," James said softly, before turning on his booted feet and walking away. Draca stood from her seat.

"You were once a vibrant and powerful man, Lord Denethor. I do not like what has become of you," she said, before hurrying out behind James, much to Lucius' consternation. There were a few moments of awkward silence, before Denethor's dark, glittering gaze found his son's.

"So the purpose of this little meeting has been to tell me that you failed your mission?" he asked lowly. Boromir seemed to stiffen in surprise and anger, but it was Gandalf who stood from his seat, his white robes shimmering as they shifted.

"War is at your doorstep and the enemy knocks on the gate. As steward, you are charged with the defense of this city. Where are Gondor's armies? You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. The beacons are lit, and Théoden of Rohan rides now to fulfil his oaths and defend Rohan's allies!" Gandalf said sharply.

"You think you are wise, Mithrandir," Denethor said slowly. "Yet for all your subtleties you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. With your left hand you would use me as a shield against Mordor. And with your right you would seek to supplant me. I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan. Oh yes. Word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And I tell you now, I will not bow to this Ranger from the North, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship!" At these words Boromir stood so quickly that his heavy wooden chair was almost knocked over.

"No word of dishonor will you speak of him in my presence!" he snarled. Denethor seemed much surprised, his greying brows twitching upwards.

"What sort of dark sorcery has he netted you with, Boromir?" Denethor asked. Boromir shook his head, eyes gleaming.

"No sorcery is involved. My loyalty is born out of love and respect for him. It was _he_ that led our troop out of Rivendell. It was _he _who suffered and sacrificed to see that we were all safe. When I lay pierced with arrows and unsure if I would ever see the light of another day, he made sure that I was in good hands before he sought the Hobbits that were lost to us. I told him on that day that I would have followed him to the end, because he was my brother in arms. He was the captain of our secret army. But more importantly, because he was- and is,- my King," Boromir said firmly, tears coming to his eyes. "Do not forget that it is the King who holds the authority to appoint another bloodline to the seat of the Steward. And I say this now, father, with Eru as my witness: if you cause our bloodline to be cast from the Stewardship with your pride, I will deny all connections to you. You will not be my father any longer."

There was silence among them.

"You would abandon us then, in the hour of our greatest need?" Denethor asked. All the remaining inhabitants of the room watched with awe and curiosity.

"Nay, my Lord Father. I would lay down my life willingly for my country, and for this city. Nay, if Gondor falls it will not be by my idleness. I sought and found allies," Boromir said, reaching forward and taking Talun's hand in his. Denethor inhaled sharply. "I found allies and they were wrought with love and honor. With loyalty and blood. No greater defense could Gondor want. No greater defense could Gondor need."

And with that Boromir turned and left, tugging Talun along behind him. They walked into the hallway, and Boromir was surprised to have Talun whirl on him, reaching up and tangling her hand in his hair as she pulled him down for a searing kiss that sent electric tingles straight to his groin. For several breathless moments their lips battled for dominance, before she pulled back, her ample chest heaving.

"Where is your room, Boromir? Or hell, the nearest linen closet will do!" she said, her voice low and husky as she reached a hand low to stroke the growing bulge in his leggings. "The passion in your speech is plain, and it has ignited a fire in my belly!" Her roving fingers sought the front of his pants.

"Elbereth's sparkly nightlights! At least keep it in your pants until you get a room!"

Boromir's head snapped up and they saw James and Draca staring at them, both with bemused faces. They were holding each other's hand, their fingers entwined, and James' wing was extended lightly behind Draca's shoulder in a protective stance. Boromir shot James a glare as he took hold of Talun's wandering hand and pulled her none-too-gently along the hallway. There were predatory gleams on both of their faces. James watched as they disappeared around a corner.

"Ah…someone is getting the _shit_ fucked out of them in just a few minutes. Horny little bitch," James said fondly. Draca looked at him, twitching golden eyebrows upwards. "I was talking about Boromir. That guy will shove his tallywhacker in anything that lies still long enough…" James clarified, making Draca give a startled laugh.

"James!" she exclaimed. But James was not deterred.

"He tried to put the moves on me while we were in the Wild, but I told him to stay on his own bedroll!"

* * *

_Assemble the Men at Dunharrow. As many Men as can be found. You have two days. On the third, we ride for Gondor and war._

This was the charge given by Théoden King shortly after the departure of Gandalf and his Company. The King himself was riding to lead the muster from Dunharrow, over the mountains, and down into Gondor where Minas Tirith would most likely be under siege. Prince Amir had already pledge the remnants of the Rhûnic army to Théoden's service, of which there were still three hundred viable fighters. Stargush had volunteered to ride back to the Redling village and muster every available sword there. Not having truly counted their numbers before, Gismblog reckoned that they could add close to four hundred to the King's company, and would indeed meet at Dunharrow.

Goldhorn could muster no more of his kin. Only ten had he been able to bring with him, leaving more behind to protect the queen, who was heavy with egg and unable to travel or fight. With Snowpaw injured and unable to join them, and Claywing slain, there were only eight dragons that could answer the muster. But eight dragons were eight more than Gondor had previously.

Phelan and Gismblog tended to the Warfs who had been left without riders, distributing the battle-eager creatures among any who was brave enough to ride. Many of the Rhûnic people had no qualms about riding the huge wolves, and many of the Isengard Uruks that were rescued were introduced to lupine mounts, including Nalt. Hugi, though he was more scholar than soldier, would ride with them. Théoden King had told him if they returned to Meduseld alive, then the scholarly Uruk might have a job as a scribe to Rohan.

Sirius had almost refused to ride, since no one else of his company was left. But it was Alatar that convinced him.

"If Sauron's armies succeed, then your other wizards will be dead and there will be no safe place for your son to recover," he had said. Orion, awake but hurting, had agreed with his mentor. And so Sirius found himself on his black wolf again, ready to ride out.

It was Legolas who sought out Celebrían to ask of her what she would do.

"It is tradition for the women to ride out to the final encampment before they are off to war. I will ride as far as Dunharrow, and then I will return here to help care for the injured. There are many here that were taken from Isengard that need rest and food. The provisions that the people of Rhûn brought will be invaluable for this," she'd said. Unable to find her an extra horse on such short notice, she had been supplied with a delicate, long-legged she-warf. The large, liquid brown eyes of the wolf were disarming, and Celebrían found that she didn't mind so much. And her wolf certainly didn't mind the rather spoiling strokes she was receiving to her ears and side.

Soon all were ready to depart, their company of horses, wolves and dragons. Gimli rode behind Legolas on their borrowed horse, and Merry in front of Aragorn. Presently they were riding swiftly through the night. They had not long passed the mounds at the Fords of Isen, when a Rider galloped up from the rear of their line.

"My lord," he said to the king, "there are horsemen behind us. As we crossed the fords I thought that I heard them. Now we are sure. They are overtaking us, riding hard."

Théoden at once called a halt. The Riders turned about and seized their spears. Aragorn dismounted and set Merry on the ground, and drawing his sword he stood by the king's stirrup. Éomer and his esquire rode back to the rear. The sinking moon was obscured by a great sailing cloud, but suddenly it rode out clear again. Then they all heard the sound of hoofs, and at the same moment they saw dark shapes coming swiftly on the path from the fords. The moonlight glinted here and there on the points of spears. The number of the pursuers could not be told, but they seemed no fewer than the king's escort, at the least.

When they were some fifty paces off, Éomer called to them in a loud voice.

"Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?" The pursuers brought their steeds to a sudden stand. A silence followed; and then in the moonlight, a horseman could be seen dismounting and walking slowly forward. His hand showed white as he held it up, palm outward, in token of peace; but the king's men gripped their weapons. At ten paces the man stopped. He was tall, a dark standing shadow. Then his clear voice rang out.

"Rohan? Rohan did you say? That is a glad word. We seek that land in haste from long afar. Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North I am," cried the man. "We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn, and we heard that he was in Rohan."

"And you have found him!" cried Aragorn. Giving his reins to Merry, he ran forward and embraced the newcomer. "Halbarad! Of all joys this is the least expected!"

There seemed to be a unanimous feeling of relief within them. But Halbarad looked behind them at the host, and his dark eyebrows rose high.

"I see a great host of…I cannot describe it," he said, looking at the different Banners which flew just lower than the banner of Rohan. Aragorn grinned.

"Rohan has been blessed with many unlooked for allies, and these allies ride with the horsemen to Gondor's aid. A group of three hundred renegades of Rhûn, led by one of the Princes of the capitol of Rhûn, thirty or more half-orcs who have pledged their loyalty to Rohan to fight for their mother's Race, a few freed captives of Isengard, fully Uruk and fully ready to fight, and eight dragons brought by a most interesting ally of the West," Aragorn said. Halbarad whistled lowly.

"I have thirty with me," he said. "That is all of our kindred that could be gathered in haste; but the brethren Elladan and Elrohir have ridden with us, desiring to go to the war…" he trailed off when he saw the look of surprise on his chieftain's face. Aragorn's head turned toward the host behind him, searching the faces. Then he turned to Halbarad.

"Bring them forth. I beg you call them to us!" he said, before rushing back towards their group. There was much murmuring among both groups. Théoden held up his hand.

"It is well!" he said. "If these men be in any way like to lord Aragorn, thirty such knights will be a strength that cannot be counted by heads," he said in way of soothing the nervous people.

"I cannot imagine why you need me at the front, my Lord. I have little control over this wolf as it is, and now you've gotten her all excited!"

The twins had come forward as they'd been asked, and looked curiously to where their adopted brother had disappeared into the crowd. Suddenly the host parted for him, and he was leading forward a huge wolf. The twins started at the sight of such a creature, whose head was tossing much like a horse's and hiding the sight of its rider. But their words and breath froze in their chests when a grinning Aragorn shifted the wolf sideways so that the rider was revealed.

"Now what is so important that I-," and she stopped abruptly as she caught sight of the riders. For several long moments they merely stared at each other, before one of the twins drew his horse forward.

"What sorcery is this?" he croaked. The elleth gracefully dismounted her long-legged wolf, taking a few tentative steps towards them. There was curiosity on the faces of the host of Rohan, and wonder on the faces of the Rangers.

Celebrían opened her arms in welcome.

"My little lambs," she said simply. Elrohir inhaled raggedly, all but throwing himself from his horse and stumbling mightily as he tried to get to her. Elladan dismounted much slower, watching her with unlinking eyes as if afraid she would disappear before him. Elrohir threw his arms around his mother, breathing deeply.

"_Nana!_" he cried brokenly. One of her slender arms was around him, and she held her other arm out for the remaining twin.

"Elladan?" she asked. He shook his head.

"How are you here?" he asked.

"A long, _long_ story, my proud little warriors," she said softly. Elrohir grumbled into her silvery hair.

"Not so little. Been a long time since we've been little," he murmured.

"You _left_. You're supposed to be in Valinor!" Elladan exclaimed, causing a ripple of noise around them. Elrohir finally let go of his mother as she moved towards his brother.

"I was. Until I sailed back with Lord Ulmo. I was needed here," she said. Elladan seemed gobsmacked.

"What could possibly call you from Amman? Why didn't you go to Imladris?" he asked.

"We will discuss this on the road, Elladan. 'Tis a complicated tale," Celebrían said. But Elladan merely shook his head again.

"Father is going to flip his shit," he said, borrowing a phrase that they had heard uttered by Naurlam before the Fellowship had departed. Celebrían looked scandalized.

"You watch that tongue, young man! There are forces here that are older, and more powerful than any of us! Now, I said I would discuss this with you while we travel. Time is short and we must go! My host has been more than patient while we tarried!" She said, drawing herself up as her inner aura flared in the moonlight. As one who had seen the Blessed Realm, her shine now rivaled that of her mother, and she was truly beautiful to behold. Elladan's resolve crumbled in the presence of his mother's Light. Long had it been since he'd seen it, and the familiar temper that was making it flare convinced him more than sweet words that this was his beloved Nana. So he gave her a small smile, tilting his head in respect to her smart order.

"Of course, Nana."

* * *

Aww…this scene relied heavily on parts of the book at times, but I did try to edit it to my needs, so that it wasn't like reading the whole thing over again. I had thought about the movie scene where Elrond comes to the camp, but that was to bring Andúril to Aragorn. And…dude already had that in the book, so Elrond is stuck being all lordly and shit back in Imladris while the twins got to see their mama first.

Everyone say 'aww…'

Then if you haven't, you should favorite and/or follow, and definitely leave a review to let me know how everything turned out!


	34. The Province of Men

Lolololol. I have a new job and I'm writing two stories. I updated 'I Dreamed a Dream' with its fourth chapter, and I just got around to getting this one out. When I clock out from my other job (I'm holding two right now) Saturday morning, I will have worked 56.5 hours this week, and yet I still got out two chapters from two stories.

I finally got to the other Cameo in the story, yay! Peevesisawesome, your cameo appears near the end of the chapter, being introduced. Just like I did with the other one she'll probably appear more than once, as you'll see. So I got as many details as I could in, but there's still chances for the other stuff to appear.

I hope everyone enjoyed last chapter with Celebrían and the boys. :3 She didn't get a mention in this chapter, but I'll be sure to put her in before the Rohirrim march out of Dunharrow. Anywhoo, we're close to the battle of Pelennor fields, so I hope everyone is ready!

* * *

Chapter 34 - The Province of Men

It was the commotion at the walls that drew them. The soldiers stationed at Osgiliath had been overtaken, and those able had fled in the presence of the superior amount of Orcs. It would have been a standard retreat if it had not been for the presence of the Nazgûl. Several of the black-swathed servants of Sauron were attacking the city and the retreating riders with their winged steeds.

Harry was watching from the wall, his hand tight on his wand. Lucius stood as well, watching the destruction in quiet consternation. What exactly were they to do against these foes? They had taken the two that fought them by surprise, and he doubted that they would be able to use the trick they'd used with Hathalmyrn. Sauron seemed to underestimate his foes a lot, but he was not stupid. The Nazgûl were unaffected by the Patronus charm, and any physical damage was ineffective because they weren't truly alive… Who could stand against the creatures?

* * *

"So, Hathalmyrn….wanna go kick your brother's asses?" James asked conversationally, studying his shiny black claws. The wraith in question had been flitting in the shadows of the walls, trying to stay out of sight while seeing what was going on.

"Thou dost not order me, son of my Master," Hathalmyrn said, perching at the edge of the prow-like tower that overlooked the whole of Minas Tirith.

"I'm about to take off down there myself. I know Gandalf just went to get his horse. I'm going to blow fire up their arses. I'm not ordering you anywhere…I was asking if you willingly wanted to come kick some other Nazgûl in the face?" James said. Hathalmyrn turned and seemed to study James.

"Thou asks me…willingly?" he asked, the concept unfamiliar to him. It was not uncommon for the Nazgûl to act without direct orders, but it was only if they were acting on behalf of their Master, to better his will. Doing something willingly and of their own accord was unfamiliar. "I…yes. Yes I will go, child of Morgoth."

"First of all, that's a terrible way to make me like you," James said, before shifting into his dragon form. "Secondly….get on."

Hathalmyrn mounted the dragon as a steed, drawing his sword with the hiss of cold steel. James shivered under the coldness of the Nazgûl's presence, but merely shuffled his wings as he loped back away from the edge. Then he turned his body, stretching his claws and scraping the tips against the stone. Hathalmyrn could feel the bunching of muscles underneath the scaled hide, before the dragon set off swiftly, running with haste toward the pinnacle of the wall. His long strides ended in such a way that his back feet pushed off against the wall and his wings spread out with a snap. Then he folded them slightly and dove over the rings of the city.

James roared loudly several times, and even let out a tongue of flame at one point. Then, as they were passing over the outer wall, James turned his head.

"Give a shout, Hathalmyrn!" he called into the wind. Hathalmyrn hesitated only a second, before raising his pale sword into the air and letting out the Nazgûl's shriek. Just as his cry sounded the gates of Minas Tirith were opened, and a gleam of white streaked forth. Shadowfax's hooves pounded the ground, his rider gleaming as brightly as he as they set forth.

On the gate, Harry was watching the streaks of white and black with his mouth open.

"Isn't that your Nazgûl, Lord Wizard?" one of the citadel guards asked.

"Why yes, yes it is."

"And isn't that the black dragon that turns into your son?" the same guard asked.

"Ah…I believe so."

"So your son stole your Nazgûl?" the guard finished. Harry shook his head, still watching as the two figures ran towards the melee.

"I hope not," Harry finally replied.

James's wings flapped powerfully, and Hathalmyrn likened it to riding a smaller version of his old winged steed. James was definitely more intelligent, as well. In the air James had little rival and quickly overtook even the swift hooves of Shadowfax. He heard the horse whicker in annoyance below him, and a shouted curse from Gandalf.

"He's so funny!" James yelled. Hathalmyrn merely shrieked again, catching the attention of one of the other wraiths that were attacking the Gondorian force. The other Nazgûl brought its mount up higher, turning to face the advancing dragon and previous cohort.

"Well, well! If it isn't little Hathalmyrn and his wee pet dragon!" the wraith called in a condescending voice.

"None have asked for thy opinion, Adunaphel!" Hathalmyrn called. There was a rattling laugh from Adunaphel.

"The Master has called for thy destruction, Little One," Adunaphel said. "And I would be honored to bring him your hand, with its traitorous Ring still attached!"

The other wraith charged with a shriek, lifting its gleaming sword and going in for an immediate kill. James twisted himself so that Hathalmyrn could bring in a counterblow, and the claws of the dragon reached out, catching the fell beast across the side of its face. James had forelegs, and a greater forward reach, but the fell steed was larger and had long, sinewy back legs, which it promptly extended and kicked James soundly. He had to whirl to accommodate for it, but Hathalyrm held on impressively.

James righted himself and approached the other beast from below. Hathalmyrn shoved up his own blade, slicing into the beast's ribs and cutting the thick leather strap that held on the saddle. The winged beast shrieked in agony and kicked again, its back talon's cutting through the hide on James' face and tearing three jagged cuts on the dragon's cheek.

Adunaphel grappled with his mount to stay on with the saddle flopping wildly, but in the end it was useless as James twisted his head and blew a great gout of white-hot fire. Hathalmyrn leaned back from the dragon's head, but the mount of the other Nazgûl could not escape. Its head and neck were caught in the blast, and were singed to the bone in moments. The beast dropped like a stone, taking its rider with it. Adunaphel jumped at the last moment, tumbling ungracefully through the air before tripping to his feet and shrieking angrily.

By this time Gandalf had arrived and was trying to round up the other two wraiths. As they fled from the white light of Gandalf's staff, one of them swooped low, allowing the dismounted Adunaphel to jump on behind him.

"That's right, Uvatha! Take thy cowardly brother and return to the selfish Master who let thee out of thine collars for the day! And tell him Hathalmyrn sends his salutations!" the wraith said, before tossing back his head and shrieking in victory. Gandalf turned Shadowfax and galloped towards the head of the column of riders. James, his cheek bleeding and aching, whirled on his wings to fly above them.

The gates were opened for the riders on land, but James merely winged right over them, landing in the midst of the soldiers and causing the shouts and cries of many of them. Gandalf dismounted Shadowfax and turned to James, lifting his staff and giving him a mighty whack across the head. James yelped and swiveled.

"What was that for?" he asked as Hathalmyrn dismounted.

"Both of you are fools!" he snapped, before his staff caught Hathalmyrn across his head with a _thunk_. James changed back into his two-legged form, his face stained on one side with blood. Gandalf paused at that, not having seen the severity of the wound against James' black scales. "That was foolish. We need our allies where they are. I had everything taken care of!"

"Mithrandir! They broke through our defenses. They've taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions of Orcs are crossing the river," Faramir said, advancing on the white Wizard as his eyes were boring into the strange Nazgûl and the dragon-man. James looked at the soldier, his gold eyes flitting over his features. This guy had to be related to Boromir.

"Well, it was nice seeing everyone. I'm gonna go see if someone will sew up my face. Maybe Draca's free," James said. He turned and looked at the crowd around him. Seeing no obvious route through the crowd he shrugged, turned on his heel, and Disapparated with a small _pop_ of displaced air. The crowd gasped at the disappearance of the half-dragon.

"I shall…just go find Master Harry…" Hathalmyrn said.

"Here he is!"

Harry pushed through the crowd, his expression unreadable. Hathalmyrn seemed to droop like a scolded puppy.

"That was very foolish! Both of you should know better, you most of all!" Harry said. The soldiers watched in fascination as the wild-haired stranger _scolded_ the Nazgûl. Then Harry gave a wry smile. "But it looked fucking _awesome_! Get over here you great, shadowy git!" Harry laughed, clapping the black-clad shoulder.

"Keep that _thing_ under wraps, wizardling," Gandalf huffed. Harry turned to the white wizard, grinning dangerously.

"Hathalmyrn caused no trouble. In fact, I daresay that he may have even caused a bit of worry for the Lord of the Black Land. Hathalmyrn's loyalty is unwaveringly mine, even when he is faced with his old brethren. Come, my bad-ass black specter, and we shall see about getting the crest of the House of Potter emblazoned on your robes," Harry commented lightly. The wraith made a sound of assent, before the unlikely pair turned and began to walk away. The crowd parted for them, leaving silence in their wake. "There's a rampant lion. I was actually surprised when I found out the House color was blue, but it's actually kind of neat."

"Anything is better than that gaudy black eye on a red field!"

* * *

"Brother!"

Faramir started physically when he heard the exclamation, his eyes widening when he caught sight of his brother striding towards him. His tired, dirty face lit up with exuberance beyond measure. He met Boromir with a cry, grasping him tightly as though he could not believe he was real.

"I saw you fall in my dreams, brother!" Faramir exclaimed. Boromir grinned.

"I was felled by the arrows of great orcs, but I was healed by a most unexpected source," Boromir said, before holding his younger brother at arm's length and getting a good look at him. "Eru's grace, Faramir! What has happened?"

"Osgiliath was taken, Boromir. We tried to keep it in Gondor's grasp, but the Orcs caught us by surprise at the river. We did not expect them to come that way," Faramir said tiredly.

"Well come, come, little brother! We will get you cleaned up and toast to your return to Minas Tirith!" Boromir said cheerfully. "And there is someone I want you to meet," he added slyly. Faramir noticed the way his brother's grey eyes twinkled, and opened his mouth to say something.

"Not before he has explained to me why he gave up the ground that you fought so hard to win."

They turned to see Denethor standing in the doorway, his heavy velvet robes sweeping the ground.

"There was no way to keep the city. Every man would have fallen, and Minas Tirith would have lost a valuable amount of soldiers. Ever closer do the twisted orcs of Mordor creep, father," Faramir said calmly, but Boromir could see the pulse in his neck quicken.

"So you left Osgiliath for the orcs to enjoy? This is how you would serve your city? You would risk its utter ruin?" Denethor asked sharply. Boromir intervened, stepping in front of his brother.

"Osgiliath is a boon when it comes to vantage and defense, this much is true, but its loss is not completely devastating, father. We knew that my victory would not hold for long. We have been playing a game of keep-away with the city for years, and they would get the upper hand some time," Boromir said reasonably.

"I did what I judged to be right," Faramir said, stepping out of his brother's shadow.

"And I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses, defenses that your brother long held intact," Denethor said. Boromir drew himself up, his eyes flashing in the light.

"And yet those defenses are not more important than the lives of one of the city's great captains and his men!" Boromir returned.

"What would you have me do?" Faramir asked, sounding resigned and tired. He had hoped for a small meal with his father, perhaps a few nights in the city to restore his body. He had not been expecting to see his brother. He had not been expecting for his father to want to be rid of him again so soon, either.

"I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken," Denethor said, his voice brooking no argument. Boromir inhaled sharply.

"Father, no! That is a death-sentence!" he said.

"Osgiliath is overrun, My Lord," Faramir said formally.

"Much must be risked in war. Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?" Denethor asked softly, his eyes not making contact with Faramir's. Denethor's gaze had always been of dark grey, like iron. Cold and unyielding. Boromir had the bright grey gaze of the Númenóreans of old. But Faramir had the silvery gaze of their cousins from the sea. The almost elven brightness in his eyes was a direct feature of their mother. Boromir saw his mother when he looked in his brother's eyes. And Boromir knew his father saw it, too. And so did Faramir. And then Faramir understood.

"You wish now that our places had been exchanged, that I had died and mother had lived," Faramir said suddenly. Boromir's head snapped towards his brother. Never had Faramir said that aloud, though long had he suspected it. "You have always wished it. You would have bashed my brains out as a toothless babe if it would have brought mother back," it wasn't a question. It was a statement. For long moments iron grey and fey silver danced at the edge of each other's perception, before Denethor's mouth tightened into a frown.

"Yes, I wish that," Denethor said quietly, almost as though he were talking to himself.

"Father!" Boromir bellowed. He saw the glittering of tears in Faramir's eyes.

"Since you were robbed of mother, I will do what I can to serve my Lord, even if he wishes he were not my father," Faramir said, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to walk away, but Boromir's hand was on his shoulder.

"Do not do this thing, Faramir! Father speaks of a long festering grief! Father, do not send Faramir on this journey to his death! He has only just returned. I wish to dine with my brother this night," Boromir said. But Denethor sneered and turned away from both of them. Faramir twitched his shoulder out of his brother's grasp.

"Fear not for me, Brother. I hope to be with mother soon," Faramir said, before taking several limping steps toward the door. He stopped, and turned back to his father. "But if I should return…I should hope you think better of me, father," Faramir said. Denethor did not spare him a glance.

"That will depend on the manner of your return," Denethor replied.

"I will go with you!" Boromir said suddenly.

"No, the white city needs your military guidance. Your brother's foolishness has put us at a great risk," Denethor said sharply. Boromir watched as his brother's cloak twitched around the corner. He turned back to his father, his own eyes sparkling and his face a mask of grief.

"I know you not," he said, before turning and walking away. He may have been ordered to stay here, but he could see his little brother off.

He just hoped it wouldn't be the last time he saw him.

* * *

"Are we sure this is a good idea?"

The question had been murmured, not meant for the ears of their captain, but the sharp-eared warrior turned his head anyway, baring his teeth at the younger fighter.

"We made a promise to the King of Rohan," Stargush growled. He was dressed for war as he led along his battle-scarred mount, Razorpaw. She was getting on in years, now, but she had been faithful for the last decade and he would not abandon her in favor of a shinier, prettier mount. They were two peas in a pod: outcasts from their race, fighting for the other side, hideous in the eyes of their allies….and yet their skill was unmatched. Stargush could wield a sword better than any of his underlings, and Razorpaw had a reaction time second to none amongst the Redling mounts.

"I didn't promise shit…" the youngling growled.

"It's a little fucking late for you to start growing a pussy, Ia," Stargush snarled. One of the female soldiers snorted.

"Don't put this on the ladies!" she exclaimed, leaning forward in her saddle and showing sharp white teeth. "We've got more balls than he does!" There was a soft titter among the surrounding Redlings. Stargush took a breath.

"Well, my lads, and lasses. Over the crest we will look down on Dunharrow. It will be off to war. This is no minor skirmish with the wizard's pawns, or a dispute with the boys of the mountains who've come down too far. This is full out war. We're fighting with Rohan. We're fighting for Gondor. We're going to show that fire-eyed bitchling that we're not pawns, but allies!" he called. There was a cheer from those closest to him. He looked back at the force that had come with him. He had been able to muster just over four hundred Redlings. Orc, Uruk, and Goblin born faces stared back at him. They all had something to prove.

Some were on horses, but the majority were on the giant wolves the Redlings favored. They would sing of the creatures as big and sturdy as horses in years to come. They would sing of the time when the half-bloods rose up against their father's people and marched with the Men of the West.

Stargush lifted his hand and led them forward, reaching to his side and retrieving his horn. The young man beside him quickly unfurled the banner of the Redlings. It was a black wolf leaping on a red field trimmed in gold. They came upon the crest of the hill, looking down on the many tents of the Rohirrim. Stargush put his horn to his lips and blew a loud, clear alto note across the valley. They received a return note from the King's own horn, causing a cheer to go up as the banner waived gaily.

They had been made welcome.

* * *

Éowyn gently smoothed down the Lothlórien cloak over the leather armor of Merry's esquire attire. He moved his fingers inside the rich leather gloves, admiring the grand tooling of the leather of his vambraces. He grinned as Éowyn placed a Rohirric helm on his head.

"There! A true esquire of Rohan!" she said, looking delighted at the hobbit's enthusiasm. He had pledged his blade to her uncle. An honor with the King had taken very seriously, and accepted the fierce little Hobbit's pledge. Many of the Uruks riding with them would not have been there except for his quick thinking and kindness.

"I'm ready!" he said cheerfully, drawing his sword with a tad too much excitement. Éowyn ducked back and laughed. He grimaced.

"Sorry. It isn't all that dangerous. It's not even sharp…" he lamented. The blade had grown dull over their travels, and he had not the training or the tools to sharpen it himself. Éowyn tested the blade gingerly with her fingers, then frowned.

"Well that won't do at all!" she tsked. "You won't kill many Orcs with a blunt blade! Come on," she said, leading him from the tent. Merry, looking awfully pleased at the mention of being useful again, whirled his sword in practice, twisting it as though to block an invisible foe. "To the smithy with you!" Éowyn laughed, pushing him in the right direction.

"You shouldn't encourage him."

She turned to see her brother and Gamling sitting by the fire, enjoying a bit of warm food for their last night at camp.

"You should not doubt him," Éowyn returned coolly. Éomer gave her an indulging smile.

"I do not doubt his heart," he acquiesced. She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for the punchline. "Only the reach of his arm," Éomer finished, causing Gamling to snicker.

"Why should Merry be left behind? He has as much cause to go to war as you. Why can he not fight for those he loves?" she asked, her hands balling into fists. Éomer studied her face for a moment, before standing from his seat by the fire.

"You know as little of war as that Hobbit. When the fear takes him and the blood and the screams and the horror of battle take hold, do you think he would stand and fight? He would flee. And he would be right to do so. War is the province of Men, Éowyn," Éomer said. There was a sharp snort from nearby.

One of the Uruks from Isengard stood from the fire that held a mixed ring of men and Uruks. This one was tall and willowy, and it took them a moment to realize it was a female. As a matter of fact, it was the same female that had stayed close to Merry. Nalt stepped forward, her pale green eyes lighting up in the firelight.

"Men are not the only ones who can fight. A woman can wield a sword with just as much ferocity as a man," she said. Éomer merely looked at her coldly.

"I speak of humans, not twisted orcs and their ill-bred bitches," he said. Nalt merely smiled.

"You're blind, human. You cannot see what is directly in front of your face. Such a proud, fierce man could not possibly fight with poor, defenseless women. Do not forget, paleskin, that it is the she-wolf that fights most fiercely when her pups are threatened. Or, in terms that you can understand, the mare that fights for her foal. Women have done strange things when you threaten their families," Nalt said. She looked over a few of the fires, before laughing sharply and walking away from her own fire to find Merry. He would laugh with her over what she had seen and smelled among the 'men' of Rohan.

It was a severe weakness of these men that they couldn't see past their own peckers.

* * *

"I don't think we should do this," a voice mumbled nervously. The figure adjusted the leather armor, lifting the hood of the cloak a bit when another soldier walked a little close. The companion of the figure nudged sharply with an elbow.

"Hush! We must act as though we belong. And you not sitting around the other fire because everyone smelled like 'hot horse-shit' was extremely suspicious," the companion spat.

"Please, Tyne. Let's just go to one of the captains and explain what happened…then we can go home…" the first figure whimpered.

"Why do you want to go home?"

They looked up to see one of the Redling warriors standing there. It was one of the younger ones, and a girl at that, her sleek black hair braided over her shoulder in the Rohirric style, her piercing blue eyes staring out of a grey face.

"You're one of those orc-fighters. But you're a girl!" the second said. The Redling girl smiled, and it wasn't pleasant.

"Aye. The name is Drengcwen," she said. The two looked at each other.

"That's Rohirric!" Tyne exclaimed.

"A sharp one, you are. You want to fight but your friend doesn't. That doesn't sound like a good recipe for war," Drengcwen commented, sitting by their fire. Her sword was by her side and her quiver strapped to her back, not having removed them for the night.

"She's just nervous. We'll be fine. We don't need a pep talk from a little orc, warrior or not," Tyne replied. Drengcwen nodded.

"They doubt you because you have breasts. They think that the men are to go off and fight, leaving the women to meekly sweep the floors and lie docile and dormant with your legs spread until they get back, covered in blood and sweat and filth," Drengcwen commented. Tyne scowled darkly.

"My father trained me with the sword since I was five, and I can wield it better than most of the men here!" she said. Drengcwen nodded again, her sharp teeth glinting as she grinned.

"We are not so different, despite our age and Race. And you are not alone. There are several warrior females in the Redlings. And I can smell the scent of much Human women here. You are not the only ones to braid back your hair and put on your armor. Should your friend's nerves get the best of her you may join us in the mixed group riding from Edoras. We delicate ladies should stick together," the orcish young woman said. Tyne reached out a gloved hand to the girl.

"Name's Tyne. I'm from the Eastfold," she said. Drengcwen took her gloved hand in her bare one, her sharpened black nails contrasting with her grey skin.

"My mother hailed from the Westfold, but I hail from the Redling Village. I hope to fight beside you," Drengcwen said. Tyne grinned, her own Rohirric blue eyes nearly glowing in the firelight.

"I look forward to it."

* * *

Ah, women bonding before war. It just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, don't it? Well, peevesisawesome, I hope I have done credit to what you wanted for your cameo. Don't worry, she'll pop back up again, just as Drengcwen did. Lolz. Tyne is an old-english name that means 'River.'

Now that you've enjoyed that chapter, you should make sure that you've either followed or favorite the story. Barring that, you should totally review. Pwease?


	35. On the Eve of Battle

Oh gais, it's been too long! You guys are so amazing to me. I love each and every review I get, and treasure them greatly. I've been busy with work, so I don't get a lot of time to type. I'm going to start taking my tablet to work with me though, and at least type during my breaks, so hopefully it won't take so long. Remember, next update will be I Dreamed a Dream. If you haven't read that one, you should check it out. There's, like, orcs and crap over there, highly reminiscent of the Redlings. But not quite. Meh.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 35 – On the Eve of War

"What's happening?"

"Where is he going?"

"I don't understand."

"Lord Aragorn!"

"Why does he leave on the eve of battle?"

"He leaves because there is no hope," Gamling said bitterly, watching the retreating form of Aragorn and his tag-a-longs. They had been so glad to have the Grey Company with them, and now they were all throwing away their lives for a ghost story.

"He leaves because he must," came the voice of King Théoden. The few soldiers turned to their king, looking frightened and disheartened. "It is his destiny."

"Too few have come. We cannot defeat the armies of Mordor alone," Gamling continued, his face grim as he looked at the discouraged men. Théoden gave a wan, dark smile.

"Aye," he agreed. One of the men shuddered slightly. "But we will not be alone. We stand with Rhûn, and the Redlings, and we go to stand at Gondor's side, just as Eorl did long ago," he said, reaching out and placing his hand on one man's shoulder.

There was suddenly a yipping bark, and a little streak of grey bounded into the back of the King's leg with a thump. Théoden looked down in surprise to see the little wolfling that he had been given by Gismblog. An abandoned piece of leather had been tied around its waist like a little piece of armor, and the wolf was now trying to climb Théoden's leg. The king reached down and picked up the excited thing.

"Here, lads, is a creature excited to go off to war. Is that right, Haverl?" he asked the wolf. Haverl barked and then growled, showing the pointed white teeth. The men gave weak smiles at the wolf's antics. "Has someone armored you up so that you may protect your king?" Théoden asked lightly, eyeing the haphazardly tied on piece of leather. Haverl barked again, his ears upright. "Ah, my lad, with the spirit of one of your larger cousins. War is no place for a puppy," Théoden said. Haverl seemed to understand, because his ears lowered and he gave the king a wide-eyed look, whimpering lightly. "I know, I know, my lad. But I tell you what, I have an assignment for you, one of the grandest importance!" the king soothed. Haverl's ears perked up and he lifted a paw in salute. The men snickered as the King nodded to them and turned away.

He found Éowyn overlooking the lines of tents where the Rohirrim were stationed. She looked like a pale pillar of loneliness, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared down below. Holding Haverl in the crook of his arm, he wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to kiss her head.

"I have left instruction. The people are to follow your rule in my stead. Take up my seat in the Golden Hall. Long may you defend Edoras if the battle goes ill," he said without preamble. Then he held out the little grey wolf, whose serious gaze fell on her face. She received the small creature, looking up at her uncle. "Haverl will keep you company. He is small, but his heart is fierce and strong. Just like yours." Éowyn smiled wanly, but then would not meet her uncle's gaze as she began to absent-mindedly scratch the wolf's ears.

"What other duty would you have me do, my lord?" she asked softly, her voice void of emotion. Théoden inhaled deeply, turning her towards him and taking her face in his hands. She looked into her uncle's eyes as his gloved thumbs stroked her cheeks.

"Duty? Nay, my sweet. You have been my daughter in all but blood, and I would only see you smile again. Long and dark has been the night but this, too, shall pass. I do not want you to grieve for those whose time has come. When we ride with the morning's light, I wish to know that you will not give into despair," Théoden said, pressing their foreheads together. She shifted her head and buried her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. She could smell the oil of his leather armor, the scent of man and sweat, and the soft herbal scent that was uniquely her uncle.

Haverl barked suddenly and the moment was broken. Éowyn pulled back, looking down at the little bundle of fur in her arms. Then her fair brows furrowed.

"Why is there a piece of leather tied to his back?"

* * *

"So what part of Rhûn are you from?" one of the guards asked. The Rhûnic soldier was watching as several of the Eastern women were dancing cheerfully around the fire. Though the air in Rohan was much colder than in his country, they were wearing the traditional bare-bellied outfits. The Rohirrim men seemed to enjoy the show. The Rohirrim women that had come along to send off their men were not so cheerful.

"I live near the capital city. I grew up with Prince Amir," the soldier said. Azhar had been hand-chosen by his friend and prince to come with them. He had been reluctant at first, not willing to bring the wrath of the Eye upon them, but Amir had said if the men of the West won there would be no fear of retribution. So Azhar had packed up his wife and small daughter and had come with the Renegades to the aid of the Rohirrim. He found the men of the West to be strange, but steadfast people. The Rohirrim were farmers and horsemen. His own village had been known for its sheep's wool, one of the larger outlying villages close to the King's city.

"What's it like growing up in Rhûn?" another of the pale men of Rohan asked. Azhar thought for a moment.

"Much hotter. There is lots of grass here. As your eye stretches out and sees the plains of grass, so my eye could stretch out and see much sand. We use careful irrigation to feed our sheep and grow our crops. Dry seasons can be deadly," Azhar said. One of the younger woman of Rhûn, not quite old enough to bear her belly, ran up to the pale Rohir, giggling madly as she stood in front of him. She was wearing a colorful dress that jingled with beads. She withdrew the bright blue scarf from her neck and leaned forward, wrapping it around his neck and kissing his forehead, before turning and dashing away.

The Rohir looked blindsided. Azhar laughed heartily.

"What just happened?" the soldier, Aiden, asked dazedly.

"It means she likes you and wishes you well in battle. She wants you to carry a piece of her. If you return from battle and give it back to her, it means you are not interested. But if you are victorious and keep it displayed proudly, then you are interested in courting her," Azhar said. Aiden looked over where the girl now stood by one of the fires, fluttering her dark lashes at him. He swallowed. She was awfully pretty with her dark skin and kohl-lined eyes. Aiden tied the scarf around his neck and tucked the ends down into his armor, grinning like a fool. "If you decide not to court her, please be gentle. Our women are like blossoms: beautiful and colorful, but easily crushed if held the wrong way," Azhar said.

Aiden nodded grimly. "I would treasure a lady's heart if it were given to me," he vowed. Azhar laughed again. "Tell me more about Rhûn!"

"Have you ever seen a camel?"

* * *

The horse had nearly thrown its master several times in its own rabid excitement. Long had they traveled and quick were their steps to have caught up with the departing company. It would have been better if they had been able to ask help from the other realms, but they were besieged with their own woes and many of the others had gone ahead to help their kin. He wasn't sure why he had come. It was merely the snippet of a vision and the sinking feeling of familiarity within it that had made him pack up the remnant of his greatest warriors and ride.

He had done something awfully foolish. Something he had never done before. He had removed his Ring and left it with Arwen so that the valley would be protected. She had not understood, and he would not tell her why he rode into battle for the first time in thousands of years. He had the literal bottom of the barrel with him, but he could not have asked for a better team. Glorfindel on Asfaloth rode just behind him, flanked by Erestor and Lindir. Poor Lindir had looked distinctly green when asked to ride to battle, but his prowess with sword and bow was called upon.

Only fifty rode with him. It was all he could muster in this late and dark hour. None could he call from Mirkwood or Lothlórien, who were both being attacked by the orcs of Dol Guldur. With the Master of Mordor trying to rise in the East they were rabid with dark energy.

They came suddenly on the camp of the Rohirrim at Dunharrow, startling the outlying men out of their wits. Fifty Elven Warriors on elvish war-horses did not just appear every day. Elrond, circlet blazing like starlight in the flickering light of fires, nodded as they passed through the groups. Rohirrim parted like a sea of grain, their flax-colored hair and bright eyes staring in awe. They were stopped before they made it to the camp of the King.

"Who goes there?" a guard asked, looking more confident than he felt.

"Elrond of Rivendell brings fifty elves to ride with your king," Elrond said steadily, sitting on his horse, Galán. Another guard disappeared into the camp to fetch the King, and Elrond's sharp eyes were darting through the faces of those standing around. He could see dark-skinned faces with the pale Rohirrim, and was surprised. The first orcish face he saw made his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he said nothing as he continued to scour the crowd.

Eventually Théoden King appeared before him, looking every bit the Rohirrim royalty. Elrond dismounted Galán and stood before the King.

"An alliance once stood between Men and Elves. I only wish I could have brought more warriors. I had already sent many into battle with Lothlórien and Mirkwood, who are besieged by Dol Guldur. These are the remnants of the Hidden Valley," he said, motioning behind him. Théoden's eyes took in the group of Elvish warriors, glowing and looking fierce and untouchable in fine elvish armor.

"Even one of your kind is worth more than gold to us in this time of need. We fought at the Hornburg with a young Prince of Mirkwood," Théoden said. Elrond perked a bit at the mention of Thranduil's son.

"Legolas was well?" he asked. Théoden hedged a little here.

"He was…" he said. Elrond's face did not change, but his eyes flashed in the light. "He followed Lord Aragorn into the Paths of the Dead. They take the Dimholt," Théoden said. Elrond's brow twitched.

"The King of Gondor goes to call in his debt," he said. Théoden opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by an exclamation from Glorfindel.

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel!_" he cried.

"Elrond?"

He did not turn for several moments. Théoden watched as all color seemed to leave the elf's face, leaving him looking ashen and sick. For several long, drawn out moments the stately elf did not even breathe, before he slowly turned around. She stood by one of the fires of the Rohirrim, dressed in their simple clothes. Some of her hair was braided in a crown around her head, and some was left down, her delicately pointed ears poking through. Elrond drew in a ragged breath.

"I Saw you," he said simply. She came to him slowly, hitching up her shoulders slightly.

"I missed you," she returned. His hand lifted shakily and his fingers hovered just away from her face. She turned her head slightly, leaning into his palm. With a cry he suddenly enveloped her in his arms, burying his face in her hair as she grasped at him. Glorfindel turned to the others.

"Set up a tent for Lord Elrond!" he snapped. Then he looked back at the spectacle before them. Lady Celebrían was a sight for sore eyes, and an unexpected one at that. He had wondered what on Arda had gotten into Elrond when the Lord of Rivendell had come to him with the proclamation that they were going to ride for Dunharrow. Glorfindel had faithfully gathered what remaining force he could to ride with them. They would ride with the mortals to the aid of Gondor. The Men would not fight alone. For good or ill, Elrond had said that he would see the end of this conflict with his own eyes.

Glorfindel had known that the elf had Seen something that spooked him greatly, but he could have never guessed that it was _her._ How was she here? He had been part of the company that had put her on the ship that had borne her away to the Undying Lands. She had looked so pale and thin that day, her hair thin and lackluster. She had been fading fast from the horrors visited upon her. It had been a hard blow to the Homely House to lose the lovely Lady.

When he was given the signal by the other elven guard, he dismounted his white horse and approached where Elrond and Celebrían were still embracing. Neither wanted to let the other go.

"My Lord, My Lady," he said gently. It seemed to break their moment, and they turned and faced Glorfindel.

"Oh, Glorfindel! I missed you greatly!" Celebrían said. Glorfindel smiled and bowed slightly.

"They've set up a tent for you, just here," Glorfindel said, pointing to where the tent had been set up with record speed just off to the side of the King's tent. Elrond and Celebrían walked to the tent, disappearing into the canvass and leaving many awe-struck elves and men alike.

"What…just…happened?" Théoden asked. Glorfindel took a deep breath and approached the King.

"Come, Théoden King, and I will tell you of a story of sadness and loss."

Talking had lasted but a little while. It had been awkward and stilted at first. He had been very confused and hurt that she had returned, yet had not sought him out. She had explained that though she did not have the same Foresight that he and her mother had, that she had felt one of her Gut Feelings. He had understood. He remembered them fondly. It was one of those Gut Feelings that had told her she was having twins, and had made them get two of everything. When she had delivered the second child, much to everyone's surprise that day, she had merely smiled tiredly and said 'I told you so.'

Quickly their words had faded into soft, comfortable silence as she laid across his lap, his fingers in her hair as they used to do. It was she that had made the first move, sitting up and straddling his lap so she could kiss his mouth. He had been surprised and pleased, drawing her closer and trailing his fingers up her arms. Her hands were in his hair, tugging sharply and causing him to gasp. Their kisses had turned open-mouthed and hungry.

She had helped him out of his armor, setting it aside as quickly as they could so she could all but rip the under tunic off of him. Only by slapping his hands away had she been able to keep the buttons on her dress. He watched her with a predatory glare as she undid the fine wooden buttons.

"This dress was a gift," she snipped primly. As soon as the buttons were undone he pushed it back and off of her arms, revealing her to him for the first time in centuries. Elves did not scar easily, and yet there were several small ones dotting her rib cage and over her breasts. He began to trace them with his long fingers, making her shudder. She tried to pull away when he traced the longest one, just over the top of her right breast, but he held her tightly.

"I love every part of you," he said, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the light silver scar. She sniffled slightly and he moved back to her mouth. Her hands trailed down his neck and over the light muscles of his chest. He had always been leanly built, light and fast. She broke away from their kisses when she trailed over his stomach. She looked at his belly, no longer as toned as she remembered, and then back up to his face. She saw a trail of red spread over the tops of his cheeks and nose.

"You weren't there to slap the second pastry from my hand at dinner," he grumbled slightly. Laughter bubbled up like a fresh spring, and she pressed her lips to his briefly. Then she took his face in her hands.

"I love every part of you," she quoted back to him. He tugged the rest of the dress from her, groaning in appreciation as she was revealed fully. A few more of the small scars dotted her thighs, but she paid no mind to them as he went for the tie of his leggings. She made a sound of appreciation when he set the material aside, revealing himself to her in all his elvish glory.

"It's been a while since Hadhafang has seen battle," she commented lightly, watching as his elfhood twitched in reaction. He narrowed his eyes at her, covering her body with his own and looking at her heatedly.

"Hadhafang still remembers the best point of entry," he growled. A slow smile spread across her face as she willingly opened herself to him. He did lean back a little to admire the treasure offered him. So long… He reached out and touched the soft flesh presented to him, making her mewl in a pleasant way. A single digit slipped inside, causing her to gasp and practically purr.

"I didn't…I never…I could not bring…myself to completion…without you! So I…stopped trying!" she gasped, squirming slightly. Another finger joined the first, dipping and probing gently. He leaned down so that his lips were touching her sensitive ears.

"I dreamed of you often. It was the only time I could see you. I could not put a number to the times I woke up hard and aching for you, with no cool hand to sooth my fevered flesh. When the dreams stopped coming, so did the reactions. I wished for nothing more than to be inside you again, to let you know I love you, my wife," he said, his own body taut with need and trembling. He rubbed his thumb over the sensitive button of flesh above her opening as his tongue ran over the tip of her ear. She was off like one of Mithrandir's fireworks, gasping raggedly and bucking like a wild thing underneath him. After a few moments her shuddering tremors subsided, leaving her with sparkling eyes and a quivering, highly receptive quim. He could not help but remove his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste her nectar. After a few moments she opened her legs again.

"Please, husband mine. Make love to me once more," she begged. He lined himself up and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt as he groaned in utter fulfillment. Soft, warm and inviting was his sheath, and for several moments he could only enjoy the soft pulsing of flesh around him. Finally, she reached up, running the tips of her fingers over his ears. His eyes fluttered as he began to move within her.

They made love several times that night, finally falling into a deep and utterly fulfilled sleep for a few hours before dawn came and he rode with the Rohirrim. They were not the only couple to find comfort in a loved one that night, and it was not uncommon to hear the soft (and sometimes loud) sound of flesh meeting flesh and cries of completion. Many of the men would not return home, and so it was their last bit of comfort before they marched to Gondor's aid.

There would be many births that fall, including a few dark-skinned Rhûnic children, a few with Urukish features, and (after a bit of wine when Glorfindel wasn't looking and the sight of a few pretty Rohirric ladies) a few little peredhels to boost the declining population of the elves. Silly elves.

* * *

"I want the dragon wizard," he said, his fist curled tightly and resting on the stone armrest of his throne.

Adunaphel nodded his understanding, trembling in agony from the lashing he'd received for his failure. Little could the wraiths feel anymore, but pain they knew well.

"And make sure to destroy Hathalmyrn as well," he added. The wraith nodded again, and was given a sharp signal of dismissal. As the creature slinked away, Sauron drew his hands together, planting them under his chin as he leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees as fiery eyes glared ahead. That thrice-damned dragon was getting on his final nerve. It had cost Adunaphel his steed and the victory of taking the Steward's son.

That little wizard was going to pay for what he'd done. He had cost him the elf-witch, had aided in the destruction of his wizard pawn, Saruman, had helped massacre the army the tainted wizard had built for him, and was now pairing up with his Lost wraith to mock him.

When he got his hands on that little bastard dragon, he would not stop torturing him until he sang every secret he'd ever _thought_ of keeping. The boy's blood would paint his dungeon floor. He might even have the flesh peeled slowly from his body.

Hmm…that scaled hide would make a very handsome throw rug in front of his throne.

* * *

'…And then when he gets dirty, you can take him out and beat him!'

'Zazu!'

Lol, that was pretty intense. Elves at the Battle of Pelennor! Squee for Elrond and Celebrían! They were fun and adorable to write. Elrond and his widdle pudgy elf bewwy. *Poke poke* Who's a spoiled widdle Elf-lord? You are! *Shrinks away from Elrond's eyebrows*

Soo….Anyway….You should definitely favorite or follow if you haven't already, and then you should totally review. It's...like…all the rage right now.


	36. The Best Laid Plans

I'm glad you all liked my little tidbit with Elrond and Celebrían. It was enjoyable to write something that was more loving than lustful, though there was plenty of that! :) Now, I hope you are all ready for some shit to hit the fan, because I've got the fan on high and some turds ready to throw. (Ew…gross…)

Now, I hope to hear some from you guys this time, because I'm setting up for some major crap, here!

Chapter 36 – The Best Laid Plans

* * *

James sat on the pinnacle of the city, his legs thrown over the edge as he watched the orc army approaching. Already the people were bunkering down in their houses, some from the lower levels moving to the higher levels to take refuge in abandoned buildings. His cheek was sewn and bandaged by Draca, who had nearly wept at the sight of the wound. It had been deeper than he expected, and ached something fierce. But pain was not something that James had ever succumbed to, and it was not something that would take him now.

There was movement beside him and he turned his head to see Lucius sit down beside him. His hair was pulled back and tied out of his face, and his clothes were clean and presentable. He looked Lordly and noble, just as he always had.

"That is a large army," Lucius said conversationally, watching the writhing, dark mass approach.

"Orcs aren't particularly smart, most of the time. There's a lot of them, but they will do the most damage with their war machines. Orcs are advanced in the art of war," James returned, shifting his wings with nervous energy.

"Draca has decided to help in the Houses of Healing for this fight as well," Lucius said.

"There's no telling how many men will return to their homes in Rohan because Draca and Celebrían were in there healing. Orion lives, though he will not be joining the Rohirrim if they march to Gondor's aid," James said.

"You love her," Lucius said. James closed his eyes, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. His wing brushed against Lucius' arm, and the other wizard shivered slightly. He had always been a little frightened and disgusted by James. If James had seen it, he made no reaction.

"If I could die a thousand deaths to save her from what she had to endure, I would do so. If I had to endure torture every day for the rest of my life to keep her safe I would. My heart is no longer my own. It belongs to her. I will use every ounce of magic that Eru gave me to protect her and make her happy," James said, looking up at Lucius. His slitted, golden eyes were wet with tears. "Please do not take her from me. Do not make her choose between you and me. She would choose you and I would let her, but I would not live long without her. Dragons...we…dragons have soul mates, Mr. Malfoy. We may dally among lovers for a time, but when we find our soul mates we are complete. She completes me," James said.

Cool grey eyes regarded him for several long moments.

"I could never ask her to choose between us. It would break her and I would never forgive myself. There was a time when I would have fought to keep her from marrying someone not of pure blood. I don't care anymore. She became as good as a daughter to me and I love her very much. I will not say anything against your union, on one condition," Lucius said, noting the way James perked up.

"Anything, Mr. Malfoy. I would do anything," James whispered fiercely.

"Do not breed with her," Lucius said. James' eyes widened. "Do not saddle her with half-human children. Do not ruin her body with brats that could set her aflame," Lucius said, his voice on the edge of begging. James looked out over the city, his tears finally spilling, much to Lucius' surprise.

"That is a promise I can keep, Mr. Malfoy," James whispered shakily. "And have no problem doing so."

"And why is that?" Lucius asked, curious as to the quick agreement.

"It's the same reason Merlin never had blood heirs. The same reason there were never children fathered by Dumbledore, or Voldemort," James said. "Magic is all about balance. There are just as many Light affiliated wizards in the world as there are Dark. Many are shaded in grey. Some are born with low amounts of natural magic, with talents in other fields. And every so often, there are wizards born with exceedingly high amounts of natural magic. This is an imbalance, and so magic has to take something away. More often than not, nature takes away their ability to produce magically powerful children. I am one of the ones whose magic is far too high,"

"What are you saying?" Lucius asked. James took a shaking breath and let out a bitter laugh.

"I'm sterile."

* * *

Boromir was at the gates when they were opened, and the injured, limping horse dragged his brother inside the gates. With a cry Boromir was on him, using a knife to cut the broken stirrups that had wrapped around his brother's foot and kept him connected with the horse. A broken arrow pierced the armor at his shoulder, and his face was deathly pale.

"Brother!" Boromir called. Faramir was deathly still as Boromir knelt over him. On the other side of him another figure knelt, and he saw Talun checking him over.

"Unbuckle his armor, Boromir, so I can get this arrow out!" she said, going into healer mode. Some of the other soldiers watched as the two unbuckled the sides of his chest plate, carefully lifting it over the broken shaft. His tunic underneath was stained with blood. Talun reached forward, putting her fingers at his throat to feel for a pulse. For several long moments she could feel nothing, but she nearly cried aloud when she felt the soft shuddering pulse beneath her fingers.

"Faramir…"

Boromir looked up to see Denethor standing aside, his face chalky white and his eyes filled with tears.

"Do you see what your pride has wrought? Are you satisfied?" Boromir cried angrily.

Denethor looked at the still, broken body of his son, and felt nothing but hot, angry shame. In the still face he saw Finduilas, her beauty dimmed in death. Faramir's birth had weakened her, and she had never recovered her strength. Slowly, as a beautiful flower, she had wilted into nothingness over the years, until the cold arms of death took her from him. In Faramir's eyes he'd seen her, the bright-eyed remnant of the Eldar blood from the sea. The rabid curiosity and high spirit had been hers. And he had blamed the boy for Finduilas' death. He had blamed the boy, who had done nothing but be brought into this world. And now, as he looked at the blood-stained tunic of his youngest son, he realized the awful truth that he had been denying himself. Faramir had never been to blame.

It was himself. He had killed Finduilas by wanting another child. He'd wanted another child to share with his beautiful wife, and his own selfish desire had taken her. And now, he'd wanted to preserve the victory of his eldest son, and in pride he'd sent away the youngest.

"My son…my boy…I have failed you…" Denethor said.

Talun carefully reached forward, grasping the arrow close to his shoulder. She applied firm but steady pressure, easing the arrow out of the wound. It was not deep, and the jagged tip was pulled from his flesh. She made a face at the hooked tip, but smelled it to see if it was poisoned. She could smell none of the sharp tang of orc venom, and threw the arrow tip aside. She always had her healers kit at her side, and quickly withdrew a wad of bandage to stop the bleeding in his shoulder.

"He needs to be moved. I can only do so much out here in the open. Take me to your houses of healing and I will tend to him," Talun said sharply. Two men came up with a litter to carry him, and he was loaded with care.

"I do not want my son tended to by an orc," Denethor said sharply. Boromir stood, his hands stained with Faramir's blood from the removal of the armor.

"Don't you dare! Don't you pretend to care for him after everything you've put him through! All our lives he has just wanted your approval, and all he's gotten is scorn and ridicule. You cannot suddenly care about who heals him. Talun is a talented healer among her people. It was her that saved my life when I lay in an infirmary bed, pierced with venom-soaked arrows. I trusted her with my own life, and I trust her with Faramir's," Boromir snapped. Talun only spared them a glance, before following the men that carried Faramir's body. "You are steward of Gondor. We are on the eve of war! Gather up your wits and lead your people like a man! Not a sniveling shadow!"

Denethor inhaled sharply, standing straight and looking his son in the eyes.

"Your impertinence could cost you your head on any other day. But today you are right. I…I must be the beacon of Minas Tirith, ere the people lose their faith. Make sure there are men at the gate, and focus on the first three levels. No one has ever made it further than that. Boromir….son…no…Captain Boromir, you are the second in command in Gondor. They've taken the Rammas Echor and are coming up the Pelennor. Osgliath is taken, beyond our use now," Denethor said. Boromir's lips tightened at the mention of Osgiliath, but he said nothing as his father moved into a military mindset.

Denethor looked around at the faces in the crowd, and happened to see young Pippin standing among the soldiers, having seen Faramir carried in.

"Pippin, lad! Follow me. It has been long indeed since I put on my battle armor. I shall need some assistance!" Denethor barked. Pippin stood straight and saluted. Denethor turned to the others. "To your posts!"

Boromir turned to them with a fierce look, his eyes blazing.

"Let's send these foul creatures back to the abyss!"

* * *

"Time is against us. Make ready!" Théoden called. The order was sent through the ranks of the Rohirrim. He could see the army mounting up, packing up their things. The tents were left behind for the women and children to deal with. Many were making their final farewells to their loved ones. Elrond and Celebrían stood near the King, Elrond beside his horse as Celebrían buried her face into the side of her husband's neck, trying to memorize the smell of him.

"I saw something last night, while we slept," Elrond said. Celebrían pulled back a little, looking up into his eyes. His emotional upheaval from their reunion had passed, and how in his face she could see the Elrond she had loved and pledged her heart and body to. Steady as the mountain and strong as a great tree, he was, with many thousands of years of experience and strength. "This battle is not the end. There is another march the armies will make to decide the fate of Arda. Whatever happens, I want you to stay in Edoras. If the battle goes ill, flee to the Grey Havens and go back to Valinor. You can stop in Rivendell and gather the ellyth and elflings there," he said.

"Elflings?" Celebrían asked. Elrond smiled.

"There was a great increase in births after the power of the Three was cut from Sauron's taint. I believe such an occurrence happened in Lothlórien as well," he laughed. Celebrían returned his smile. Then she lifted her hands and placed them on both sides of his face.

"Return to me. I crossed back over the Sundering Seas. And while, for a time, it was to help as I could, the deciding factor was you. I would be able to see you again," she said. He folded her in his arms tightly.

"I thought I would have to sail to see you again. And I wasn't ready to go. I can make no promises to my return, but I can assure you that I will fight with all the glory of the Eldar there," he said, his face fierce.

"My Lord,"

They turned to see Glorfindel standing, resplendent in elven armor and armed with his favorite blade. In his hands he carried a battle horn, and Elrond's heart raced to see it. This was the horn he'd carried when he was the Herald of Gil-Galad, and it had not seen battle since the Last Alliance on the slopes of Orodruin. Glorfindel held out the horn, and Elrond reached forward, taking it by the fresh leather strap. The horn was of bone, etched with many elvish characters and sealed with a protective coating. The etchings had been stained and showed up well against the white of the bone. It was tipped in silver and gold, wrought together in intricate designs.

"Belegrhas, the Great Horn," Elrond said. "It will blow in battle once more." The horn seemed warm in his hands as he attached it to his belt. Celebrían then gave him a traditional salute of farewell from the Lady of a land, touching her hand to her heart and then to his.

"My heart goes with thee," she said softly. "Be safe." Then she moved to each of the elven warriors, giving them this salute. Those who had known the Lady well shed tears, which she wiped away before moving on. When the last of them had been saluted, the elves mounted their horses, awaiting the sign from Théoden King.

He sat astride Snowmane, his favored white horse, looking as a warrior of old as the sun caught in his hair, lighting it up in golden fire. The braid of unicorn hair that Draca had left with him glowed almost white in the light of the sun, glittering with latent magic.

* * *

Lost in the writhing army, a lady and a hobbit sat astride the same horse.

"Are you ready, Merry? It will all be over, soon," Éowyn said.

"Prepare to move out!" Came the echoing voice of Éomer.

"I am ready to help in any way I can, My Lady," Merry said. "I know I am no great knight of Rohan. I'm a Hobbit. I only want to help my friends. The ones that I've made recently," he said, looking across to where an Uruk of Isengard sat on one of the massive battle wolves. "And even the ones I've had for a long time. Frodo, Sam, and Pippin. More than anything, I want to see them again," Merry said. In front of Merry, carefully strapped to the horse's saddle, a furry little head popped up.

"Arf! Rrr…ark! Ark!" Haverl gave his two copper pieces to the conversation, causing Merry to laugh. Haverl's little piece of leather had been replaced by a larger piece, carefully tied around his body like a piece of armor. The fingers had been cut off of a broken gauntlet, and used to make leg armor for him. And a shallow tin cup had been fastened to his head like a helm. He was battle ready.

"Well said, little friend. Let no on underestimate us by the size of our bodies, but may we be judged by the size of our hearts!" he said.

"Make haste! We ride through the night!" They heard Théoden call. Then the sounds of horns went up. The sweet, high sound of the horns of the Rohirrim, joined with the alto tones of the Redling horns, which were complimented by the deeper sound of the Rhûnic horns. Then there was a sound like they had never heard before, and they turned their heads to see Elrond blowing the Great Horn of his elves.

"To battle!" Éowyn said, nearly vibrating with excitement. Merry adjusted his helmet so he could see, and made sure that Haverl was situated tightly on the saddle. He was more solemn as they began to move.

"To battle."

* * *

"The orders are given. Let no one stand in thy way," Came the deep, sharp voice of Murazor. The other wraiths nodded, and the Witch-King dismounted his steed.

As the others moved like shadows, the captain of the Nazgûl stayed where he was. He could see all of Minas Tirith from his vantage point, and the army of orcs that had already began their siege on the wall. He was not much interested in what the snaga did. His orders were of higher importance.

Him and his brethren were to get the dragon wizard at any cost. He had a grand idea of how to do it, but he had to hope for a little luck for his bartering chip to appear. If that did not happen, he had several contingency plans, but he was definitely hoping that this particular one worked out. Not only would he get to torment a little wizardess for a bit, but he would also get to use that to torment a little dragon hatchling. His Master wanted to break the dragon's spirit a bit before he was taken to the Black Tower. He could have gone straight after the little bastard, but it would be easier to subdue him if there were a bartering chip to use. The boy was much more powerful than the girl.

"Stay here," he ordered the winged beast, and received an affirmative rumble. He took to the air lowly, gliding like a shadow towards the city. Stealth, while it was his to command, had never been his style. He wanted his prey to know he was there. He wanted them to feel the fear of his presence. But this was going to require all the stealth he could muster.

It wasn't so difficult to traverse the shadows of the circles of Minas Tirith. On the sixth circle lay the Houses of Healing, bustling with energy now that the orcs had finally made their move. They had yet to be brought an injury, but it was only a matter of time. He watched patiently as they moved inside. Morgoth's luck seemed to be on his side this night, as his target stepped out of the Houses for a moment.

"I only want to see what's going on. I'll be right back," she called to someone inside. She walked out onto the courtyard, her staff thumping against the grass as she approached the place where the sixth circle could overlook the rest of the city, and down into the Pelennor.

Draca had never been particularly battle hungry. Sure, she had enjoyed the occasional spar, but this whole thing of killing each other mindlessly was not her forte. Her specialty was healing, though it pained her to see such suffering. The battle of the Hornburg had been so very messy. So many lives lost. And yet, because of her skill, there had been many saved that would not have made it if she and Celebrían had not intervened.

She reached up and touched the stone set into the tip of her staff. Her focus stone was very warm tonight, the jade making her fingers tingle. Her fingers ran over the stone and then down over the cool metal of the nesting blades that draped across her staff.

She wasn't sure what caused it, but a sudden chill made her tremble violently. She got the sudden feeling of being watched, and turned sharply. Her heart nearly stopped beating in her chest. There in the courtyard, stood one of the Nine wraiths. He was the mightiest of them, in fact, and she knew him from her studies with Saruman, before he had succumbed to the power of the Palantír.

"Murazor, the Witch-King," she said, her voice frozen at a whisper.

"Ithilrhas the Green, healer of the order of Wizards," Murazor returned. Draca reached up and flipped the catch on her blades, tapping the staff against the ground and letting the three nesting blades separate. She had no sword with her, and so this was her only defense. "What a fair staff dost thou carry. A delicate thing, something fitting for a woman," he said, and drew his sword. It glittered and flashed as though made of ice and reflecting fire, the blade sharp and etched with many foul letters.

"What do you want with me, slave of Sauron?" she asked, with more confidence than she felt.

"A bit of a game…a paltry amount of thy time, really," he said, and began to approach her. She had nowhere to go. Murazor raised his blade suddenly, his footsteps quickening. Draca took a deep breath. As the Witch-King brought down his sword she shoved up her staff, catching the blade neatly between the blades of her staff. Sparks flew from the meeting of enchanted metal, bothering her eyes and lighting up the shrouded hood of the Nazgûl. He pulled back the blade and struck again. She blocked again, and again the metal arced with power.

They began a deadly dance, and Draca was not sure what was going on. His movements seemed rather slow to her, easily blocked if she concentrated hard enough. She did manage to buffer him back a few times with powerful strokes of her magic, but it was tiring her quickly-

Merlin. That was the point. He wasn't _trying_ to defeat her in a duel, he was wearing out her physical stamina and her magic. He _knew_ she wasn't a warrior. Perhaps she would stand a chance if she transformed!

"What's going on out- Eru!" One of the other healers had heard the sound of metal meeting, and had come to see who was fooling around. He had not expected to see the Green Wizard fighting off a Nazgûl.

Murazor saw the look of knowing pass across her silver eyes, and knew that she had figured out his ploy. It didn't bother him at all, and didn't change his plans. She looked over at the newcomer, and indeed his plans were helped along exponentially. He zipped like a dark cloud, moving behind her and raising the hilt of his sword. He brought it down sharply against the back of her head. She crumbled like a tower, her staff clattering to the ground. He reached out and grasped her green cloak, lifting her and throwing her over his shoulder. He looked back to the healer frozen in the doorway, and shrieked powerfully.

"Tell the dragon wizard his lover is in my possession, and may be traded at my leisure," Murazor hissed.

Then with another shriek he jumped from the overlook of the sixth circle, going back into the shadows and disappearing from mortal sight.

Step one of his plan had gone off without a hitch.

* * *

Oh noes! What could he be planning? That naughty wraith! :(

Now, you've read the chapter, so if you haven't already, I would love for you to favorite or follow. But honestly, I hope you review. I really, really do. (That kinda rhymed. I'm good sometimes.) Okay no more rhyming. It's such bad timing. Oh fuck a duck. I'm such a shmuck.

Dammit….review?


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